


Zajednički

by InsaneSociopath



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Eating Disorders, F/M, Gen, Human Disaster Garcia Flynn, In which PTSD is a thing which exists and is acknowledged, Insomnia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 2 AU, Wyatt Logan is less of an idiot? Maybe?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 129,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23827834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneSociopath/pseuds/InsaneSociopath
Summary: Timelines.One small change can ripple them beyond recognition.Or one small change can rally a team together around the broken mess of a betrayed man.
Relationships: Garcia Flynn & Wyatt Logan, Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston, Rufus Carlin & Garcia Flynn
Comments: 164
Kudos: 134





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All my wips: Edward no!  
> New fandom: Edward yes!
> 
> So this was born out my desire to both have my cake and eat it. I wanted my Garcy and all the drama inherit therein. But I wanted to avoid the all-out Wyatt bashing that's prevalent in this section of the fandom. I mean, he's still an idiot here who makes mistakes (its Wyatt, come on...), but I present him to you here as a man with a least half a brain... 
> 
> (Maybe)
> 
> And I present to you how a little bit of common sense and kindness can have a big impact on our six foot four emotional garbage can named Garcia Flynn.

_“He claims he was stabbed at breakfast?” Wyatt asks with obvious mild alarm._

_“With a sharpened spoon apparently. And then he supposedly severed his attacker’s carotid artery,” Lucy grimaces back. “I mean, I guess the dead guy was a Rittenhouse agent trying to kill him first, but still…”_

_“But-” Wyatt questions. “But isn’t he in full time solitary? Breakfast!?”_

* * *

Flynn tugs the gas mask off his face with shaky hands and wraps the head strap loosely around his wrist; it wouldn’t do to leave behind any evidence of what direction he had escaped in. Even if Agent Christopher’s plan probably involves doubling back on themselves a few times, he should still be as cautious as possible.

No doubt he’ll find out if that’s part of the plan once he eventually manages to find the rendezvous point. 

Which is _somewhere_ out here. In this general direction.

(Hopefully.)

To his left, the single line of ancient trees creak ominously in the faint night breeze. With nought but the thinnest slither of silver moon to illuminate them, they almost resemble an impenetrable wall. Being banked by even deeper darkness though, the illusion is shattered by the gaps betwixt them, and instead he feels as if some unknowable entity will reach out to lay terrible claim to him. He probably deserves it for all his sins.

Less than a mile behind him, alarms continue to blare out.

Realising he’s stopped to stare blankly into the endless void between two of the trunks, he shudders through a deep breath which tugs painfully at the stiches in his right abdomen, and forces himself to start walking again. 

The cattle-cropped grass under his feet swishes damply as he hurries forward, conscious of both his height and his glaring orange apparel. Soon his plain white socks are as sodden as his equally plain slip-on canvas shoes, and he sighs again as the moisture begins soaking up his pant legs towards his knees too.

Maybe Christopher will have brought him a set of dry, less obviously criminal clothes to change into.

Maybe she’ll simply stuff him into the trunk of whatever car she’s brought to collect him and leave him shivering and damp. 

Maybe she won’t be waiting for him at all. Without a get-away-car, he won’t get far. Not with whatever prison wardens that avoided unconsciousness no doubt gaining on him. Not when he’s dressed in violent neon clothes and pale with exhaustion and hunger.

 _No,_ he tells himself sternly as he clumsily vaults over a rickety wooden fence, leaving it wobbling slightly as he jogs onwards. _She wouldn’t take the risk that I would disappear and truly escape. They need me._

She’ll be there.

She has to be.

She _needs_ him. Right?

* * *

“Well you look utter shit,” Denise Christopher remarks with a raised eyebrow, gaze running critically up and down his body. 

“Well someone gassed my room,” he drawls back as he finally staggers onto the gravel farm track he’s been searching for. His sleeve snags on the hawthorn hedge as he pushes his way through a wider gap in it, and he half-heartedly bats the offending branch away, wincing when it snaps free and drags against his bare elbow on the rebound.

“Duffel in the back,” she grunts at him when he stops and tiredly braces his hands on his knees, her head nodding towards the rear left door of the obviously-government black SUV. “Had to guess your sizes so don’t complain if the pants are too short.”

“So long as they’re not wet and orange, I’m sure I’ll cope,” he says back dryly as he pulls the back door open and spots the aforementioned bag. Unzipping it with still unsteady hands, he peers critically at the contents. “Wow all black! See, we’re already getting to know each other Denise.”

“That’s Agent Christopher to you,” she snaps back at him with a scowl. “Now get changed and get in the damn car. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

“Yes Ma’am,” he smirks, snapping out a sarcastic salute.

* * *

_“What are you implying Wyatt?” Lucy asks with a frown of her own._

_“You can’t get stabbed by someone at gen-pop breakfast if you’re not allowed to go to gen-pop breakfast,” he points out with a twist of his lips._

_“Well maybe he was just passing through?” Rufus suggests. “On his way to murder-stare at the walls of the solitary exercise yard?”_

* * *

“Flynn. Flynn wake up.”

A hand shoves against his shoulder and he reflexively twists to grab it.

Well, he tries too. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles automatically before he can think better of it, letting his socked feet slide off of the dash and back into the car’s footwell. 

“No harm, no foul I suppose,” Christopher mutters back to him equally unenthusiastically, her hand still held up and back out of his violent sleep-flailing reach.

“Where are we?” he garbles thickly through the yawn he fails to supress as he peers out at the tree and scrub covered hills surrounding them. Early morning daylight is now filtering weakly through the dark-tinted glaze of the windows and windscreen, and he can’t decide which hurts more; the crick in his neck and left shoulder from dozing off sat upright in the passenger seat, or the throbbing wound in his side that he’s accidently been compressing by hunching over in his sleep.

“We came off the I5 headed North about 30 miles back,” she replies, much to Flynn’s surprise. He thought she’d withhold as much information as possible from him. “I took a very circuitous route and avoided most of the interstate though, so it’s already gone 5am. Now I don’t know about you, but I could really use a decent coffee and a bite to eat about now. So I pulled over.”

“Is that safe?” he asks as he rolls his shoulder and holds back a wince as a knotted muscle pops painfully. “Wanted terrorist escapee in your car and all that?”

“Don’t remind me,” she grumbles tiredly, her hands visibly tightening on the steering wheel for a second. “There’s a McDonald’s with a drive through another 3 miles up the road. If you jump in the back and keep your head down, you’ll be out of sight of any CCTV they have.”

“Ah, the finest American cuisine available,” he smirks back as he finally manages to sit fully upright and stretch his back satisfactorily. 

“Well you can continue to starve if you prefer,” she huffs bitterly, her eyes narrowing.

“Even Chechen MREs were better than Max Security Prison food,” he points out mildly. “An egg McMuffin sounds like the height of luxury to me right now.”

“What did I just say about reminding me? Now get in the damn back seats Flynn.”

He smirks viciously again. 

“Yes ma’a-”

“I have a gun and I _will_ use it.”

* * *

“You know,” he starts conversationally after he’s finished inhaling the greasy fast food breakfast (and decided to worry about re-feeding syndrome later rather than now). “I’m actually a US13 sneaker. These are 12s.”

“We are not stopping so you can go clothes shopping,” Christopher growls. “We’re staying completely away from CCTV and potential witnesses.”

* * *

“Twenty minutes,” she snaps at him as she slams the car door. “Essentials only.”

Flynn squints across at the oversized Walmart with undisguised glee.

* * *

“Do you think Wyatt or Rufus will mind if I share their shaving foam?” he muses out loud as he tosses a pack of single blade razors into the cart atop the pile of tees, hoodies, cargo pants, and underwear.

“I think if you survive my company long enough to make it to the safe house, they will both definitely kill you if you touch their toiletries,” she sighs resignedly.

“This one is on offer. Two for one!” he grins, holding up two cans of Gillette sensitive gel.

“I hate you and everything you stand for,” Christopher moans as he drops them next to the razors. 

He pauses, peering over his shoulder at the range of deodorant displayed on the opposite side of the aisle.

“Can I have my own bed sheets too?”

* * *

“$173!” Christopher snaps again. “In a damn Walmart!”

Gripping the paperback book on ancient Egypt he’d grabbed in passing tightly, Flynn grins even harder with malevolent glee and shoves the now-empty shopping cart haphazardly across the parking lot.

* * *

“The baby succulent is for Rufus,” he finally says into the stony silence. The stony silence that has stretched for the last 30 miles and 40 minutes. 40 minutes ago being when they left the Walmart.

Christopher closes her eyes for a long, despairing second despite that fact she’s driving. Flynn doesn’t have to be genius to know she’s imagining 50 different ways to murder him.

“Miniature cactuses are good apology presents right? For saying “sorry I shot at you and got Al Capone to actually shoot you”?” he continues with forced blandness. “Maybe if I stick googly eyes to it and-”

“How have you not already been murdered!?” She yells at him as she furiously overtakes an oil tanker at a speed that left legal in its rear review mirror _several_ ms-2 ago. “You are _such_ an asshole!”

* * *

_“The solitary exercise yard is directly attached to the solitary block,” Jiya refutes with huff. “You’ve seen the prison blueprints too guys. And the prisoner schedule Connor pulled off their servers shows that he stays in his cell all the time except when he’s escorted alone to the yard for an hour a day.”_

_“So how did some random Rittendouche get to him to stab him?” Rufus asks wryly._

_“They didn’t,” Wyatt grimaces._

_“But-?” Lucy starts. “But then how did he-?”_

_Wyatt looks up at Denise for confirmation before he voices it out loud._

_“No-one managed to stab him,” he sighs when she nods. “He stabbed himself.”_

* * *

They wind along increasingly small back roads for the next quarter of an hour until they suddenly turn down a concrete paved track with weeds growing uninhibited up the centre. 200 metres along it, they turn a right-angle corner into a small clearing surrounded on three sides by tall bushes, long grass rippling across it.

The fourth side is open to a small overgrown valley – little more than a moderately deep stream gully – and another, taller hill.

There’s a ramshackle shelter on one side of the open space; four rough pillars of weathered breeze-block with rusted corrugated metal sheets bolted to the top as a basic roof. Adjacent to this, there’s a sloping concrete block with a heavyset metal door embedded into it.

“Leave your ill-gotten gains in the trunk, we’ll get them brought down later,” Christopher grumbles as she pulls under the shelter and jolts the gear-stick into park. “With any luck, the team are back from Hollywood already.”

For once, Flynn bites his tongue and follows her across the grass to the door in silence, pulling on his new jacket as he walks.

* * *

The safe house… is a very unsafe looking rusty cramped bunker. A rusty, cramped bunker that clearly hasn’t had any maintenance since maybe the 1960s. Or possibly even the late 1940s, he re-evaluates as he peers up at the ancient light fittings squeezed between corroded steel beams. 

“Try to play nice,” Christopher sighs at him one final time, before she steps through into what is clearly the bunkers main living space. 

Beyond her, Lucy, her band of misfits, and the lifeboat wait.

Suddenly inexplicably overcome with nerves, he steps sideways into a perpendicular corridor, clearing himself from their line of sight. 

He’d coped - if albeit only through sheer stubborn willpower and a strong desire to keep his shit together in front of Agent Christopher - with the sparse 6am “crowd” in Walmart. He _should_ be fine with the only half a dozen people in this underground dank glorified basement. 

He _should_ be fine.

He _should_ be-

“We stopped them,” he hears Lucy say, her proud voice muffled strangely to his ears.

“And dropped off the package,” Logan follows on with in the same cotton wool dampening.

“I know,” Christopher finishes with, resignation still audible in her tone. 

_Come on, walk out there_ Flynn tells himself. This would be the perfect moment for an overly dramatic entrance. A great set up for him to sweep in and-

“He not gonna come and say hi?” Logan quips in the distance, and the moment is lost. 

(If he didn’t know better, he would say that soldier-boy actually sounds slightly concerned. Except that’s definitely not what would-)

His hands are shaking again. 

“Saberi se zajedno Flynn,” he mutters harshly to himself as the rust stained walls loom down around him. Why do they have to be grey? Grey like the bricks of his quiet little cell. His quiet and safe and-

“Hey man, you alright?”

“To think I escaped prison for this,” he blurts, belated forcing his mouth into a weak smirk when he suddenly realises Logan is stood right in front of him with a frown.

“Yeah, I know right,” Logan grins with unexplainable good humour. “It’s a total shithole down here, but at least it’s _our_ super-secret shithole yeah? Come on, you can sit with Lucy and Jiya while Rufus and I get your stuff from the car. Agent Christopher said you stopped off for some basics on the drive over?”

Mute with confusion, Flynn simply stares at the other man.

* * *

_“He… stabbed himself?” Lucy draws out with obvious horror._

_“The prison board’s conclusion is that he must have snuck the plastic spoon off of one his meal trays,” Denise sighs again. “Sharpened it on his bed frame or the desk and then…”_

_“Half-hearted attempted suicide,” Wyatt finishes._

_“Six months in full solitary on top of all the shit he was already going through?” Connor shrugs, twirling his first finger in a circle towards his brow. “Cuckoo clock permanently at midnight.”_

_“Remind me to never get arrested for terrorism,” Rufus swallows with an exaggerated grimace._

* * *

He blinks and suddenly he’s sat on an ancient, brown leather chair masquerading as a couch. 

He’s staring at his feet, his hair flopping into his eyes and he has no idea how he got to here from the corridor. 

“There’s only two actual bunk rooms down here,” he realises Lucy is saying as he shakes his head and glances up. She’s sat right next to him holding a mug of what smells like cheap coffee, the sleeves of her dark blue plaid shirt pulled down over her hands. “So we cleared out another one of the storage rooms for you. It’s empty at the minute, but we’ll drag a cot in for you and help with whatever other furniture we can scavenge from the main storage cellar downstairs.”

“This tomb has another floor?” he rasps as the rest of the room suddenly comes swimming back into focus. What is _wrong_ with him!?

“Yeah, but there’s no heating vents down there, the lights are extra shit, and it’s infested with 60 plus years of damp and mildew,” she smiles gently. “If we’re stuck here long enough, Rufus is talking about trying to air it out and moving all the gym equipment down there. And Wyatt wants some training mats for the self-defence training he’s suddenly insisting on giving us.”

“The locker room is our main priority though,” another voice adds, causing him to twitch violently before he can clamp down on the response.

“You um. Must be Jiya?” he asks when the silence following his full body jerk drags on slightly too long.

“That would be me, yeah,” the golden skin toned woman smiles nervously, taking his offered hand and shaking it. “Former firmware and hardware engineer of Mason Industries in San Fran, current jack of all trades of Bunkerville, bum-fuck-nowhere.”

“Well,” Lucy cuts in with a cheeky smirk. “We’re still in California. Probably anyway. So Bunkerville, bum-fuck-somewhere?”

“That does not change the fact that our bathroom facilities came straight out of a horror movie,” Jiya retorts playfully. “As soon as we’ve disinfected Flynn’s storage cupboard and have welded the outside door lock open so he doesn’t accidently get locked in, we’re going straight back to upgrading the plumbing.”

“She says _we_ like they let me touch the power tools,” Lucy drawls to him with a raised eyebrow, her head tilting to peer sideways at him. “I get to spray things with bleach and mould remover and if they’re feeling extra trusting, sometimes I get a mop.”

“Lucy sweety, we all love you dearly, but you shorted out the entire bunker’s electricity with the vacuum cleaner.”

“I didn’t know Rufus hadn’t replaced that set of power sockets yet!”

“A world class historian she might be,” Jiya winks at him as his chest constricts tighter with confusion, “but have a grasp on basic electricals she does _not.”_

“Oh whatever you meanie,” Lucy grumps, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m getting more coffee. Flynn you want some?”

Still completely poleaxed by the fact they’re _not_ treating him as a violent, untrustworthy pariah, he merely swallows and fails to find words. He’d thought that Christopher would be the most tolerate of him, had thought that her attitude towards him on the ride over was surprisingly welcoming and friendly all considering. 

And yet?

He’s so confused.

“That… would be nice? Please?” he eventually manages, pushing himself to his feet and loping after the diminutive once-professor with tension rigid throughout his body.

* * *

“There is no way he’s fitting on that cot man,” Rufus huffs from inside an empty cavern-like room. “He’s six foot three-hundred. His feet are gonna hang off the end.”

Flynn is hovering anxiously by the door, an empty rucksack slung over one shoulder, and two Walmart bags dangling from each hand. It’s been nearly two hours and he still doesn’t understand the dynamic he’s walked into in this bunker. At all.

“I’ll make it longer when we’ve finished patching up the second hot water tank,” Logan waves away. “Or wider if you prefer man? Then you can starfish diagonally.”

This last part is directed straight at him, and he affects an uncaring expression.

“I thought you would’ve enjoyed the thought of me curled and cramped up miserably,” he huffs. “Penance for my heartless crimes?”

“What? Trying to smoke Rittenhouse out and doing the job we should have been doing from the start?”

Flynn finds himself blinking in astonished silence. _Again_ dammit.

“Wider, definitely wider,” Rufus suddenly blurts. “The bed I mean. Or the filing cabinets won’t fit at the end. You’ll need those for clothes ‘cause we don’t have any actual chest of drawers or wardrobes.”

“You’ll have to make do for now though I’m afraid,” Logan nods with an unreadable expression. “I’ll grab one of the rock slabs pretending to be a mattress for you and then we’ll head downstairs to grab some shelves and stuff. Holler for one of the girls if you need anything while we’re gone.”

And then Logan claps him aimably on the shoulder and slides past him, dragging Rufus with him. Leaving him alone in the small room to breathe in the overwhelming scent of disinfectant.

“Koji se kurac događa?” he asks the blank wall he’s facing.

* * *

_“He’s still a terrorist, and he still killed innocents,” Wyatt groans, dragging his hands down his face roughly. “But he did it because he’s a PTSD driven hot-mess who genuinely believes he had no other choice. He knows his methods were wrong, but he also knows his goals were right. He’s just too chronically depressed to care about the former right now.”_

_“Can I just reiterate the part where he’s a PTSD fuelled walking disaster waiting to explode?” Rufus grimaces. “Because I feel like that’s important.”_

_“The problem,” Wyatt sighs forcibly. “The problem is you can’t back someone with PTSD that severe into a corner or isolate them. We do that and he’ll, well. As Rufus put it, he’ll explode. And we’ll be in the blast range.”_

_“So what? We pat him and say there there? Pretend he’s not a raging physco?” Jiya snorts incredulously. “Guys, he tried to kill you all. Multiple times. He_ did _shoot my boyfriend.”_

_“Well Al Capone shot me because he told him to,” Rufus shrugs. “Which is way cooler. Not that getting shot is cool!” he adds in a hurry when Jiya turns to glare at him._

_“He’s a suicidal time bomb at rock bottom,” Wyatt states firmly before anyone else can voice further objections. “But Lucy’s right. We need his intel and his ideas.”_

_“So what do we do?” Lucy breathes quietly from her place huddled in the corner._

_Wyatt glances up once again at Denise._

_“Its simple,” he says without breaking eye contact. “We lead by example. Show him the other path.”_

_“Uh-huh,” Rufus nods, clearly not actually understanding. “Got it. Simple.” A pause. “No wait, what are doing?”_

_Wyatt huffs a wry laugh._

_“Kindness.” Denise sighs with palpable resignation. “Wyatt is saying we treat him with kindness and understanding. Lead by example.”_

* * *

Down in the basement, Rufus finds the disgustingly slimy carboard box containing all the utilitarian shelf brackets.

“Yikes,” he winces as he listens to Wyatt drag a hollow metal pole off to one side. “This entire plan is just… _Yikes.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought that Lucy only spending 6 weeks in Rittenhouse's clutches was way too short a time frame for them to trust her enough to send her to 1918 in the Mothership. So I'm um. Going to extend that.
> 
> And some other time frames. For ya know. Science?

Flynn sits on the edge of his bunk and stares at the ragtag collection of furniture that’s now sitting in the corridor just outside his room waiting for him.

Logan was right. The mattress is shit and at least 50% composed of boulders.

Sipping at the fresh mug of… hot cocoa? Brought to him by Lucy 5 minutes ago, he contemplates his situation. It’s clearer now, the more he observes, that welcoming him warmly and treating him with a reasonable modicum of decency is a conscious decision they’ve all made. A thought-out choice rather than an open display of their true feelings.

Jiya is nervous as fuck around him and seems to be largely avoiding him. Not knowing much about her other than what he gleaned from his initial break-in research into Mason Industries (and the odd mention in Lucy’s journal), he’s happy for her to continue doing so for now. Rufus too, is wary and cautious, but conversely seems to want to ignore his own unease and interact with him anyway. It was Rufus who stacked some brackets and wooden shelf planks in his doorway while asking him about Croatian cities. Rufus who dragged a battered wooden desk through the corridors towards him while rambling _simultaneously_ about Newton’s second law and Lord of the Rings. Something about elves with eyes on stalks too, and planetary curvature and napkins.

He hasn’t seen Mason since he arrived, but the storage room opposite his own has old jazz music wafting quietly through the closed door, and there’s a small metal wastepaper basket filled with empty glass liquor bottles next to it. 

Christopher hasn’t said a word to him since they got out of the car and is currently grilling Lucy and Logan about their misadventures in Hollywood in the main living area; he can hear their voices echoing mostly unintelligibly through the bunker. 

Lucy and Logan? There’s something going on between those two. Something new.

Even blinkered by his surprise, he’s still a trained government spy- well, _ex_ -government spy. He has eyes and a mostly functional brain. They’re being touchy feely. Sitting closer than necessary and blushing about it. Giggling when they pass one another. 

They weren’t doing that last time he saw them together, back in 1950s DC.

Lucy is still… Lucy though. The same alternately warm and supportive, and fierce and stubborn woman that he’s grown to know through too many encounters on opposing sides. Not quite the Lucy he met through the journal, not the hardened battle-worn soldier that put pencil to paper (at least not yet?). Nor the same sympathetic and encouraging Lucy that had handed him the journal in 2014. 

The more real Lucy. The present one that has a lot of the quirks and personality and habits of the other two but is her own person regardless. Much less naïve than he had incorrectly presumed until meeting Ethan Cahill. Still just as passionate and strong willed.

That Lucy.

Logan though?

He could have sworn upon Lorena’s catholic god that Logan hated his guts and would gladly see him dead in a forgotten ditch until two hours ago. And now he’s not only the most _friendly_ of the group towards him, but he’s the most seemingly genuine about it too.

The real question though, is _why?_

* * *

_“I’m going to befriend him.”_

_“Friends,” Rufus deadpans. “Yes of course Wyatt, you and the time travelling murder bot have a lot in common which will easily provide a base to build a friendship on.”_

_“We’re both special ops military. We both have murdered wives. We both had shit fathers, and we both want Rittenhouse gone,” Wyatt lists off with a raised eyebrow. “We have similar skill sets, though he has a lot more tech experience. We both enjoy a cold one, worship the ground food walks on, intimately know the meaning of the phrase Hurry up and wait, and have risked life and limb careening around the past.”_

_“You’re very good at overlooking the murder bot part of the equation,” Rufus repeats._

* * *

Alarms blare and Flynn flinches.

Scrambling to his feet and barrelling down the corridor with instinctive speed and Mason hot on his heels, he more or less runs into the others as they emerge frantically from the main bay. 

Christopher has her side arm out, and gestures with one hand for them to get behind her. Pulling Mason with him, he slides into place, making sure he’s between Lucy and Jiya, and the bunker entrance. 

“What’s happening?” Lucy asks, brazenly ignoring his protective move and stepping beside him.

“Someone broke in,” Christopher replies lowly. “Maybe Flynn and I were followed back here. Or Rittenhouse is tracking him.”

“Where are your guns?” he demands as he stalks with the group as they begin to move towards the main door, Mason crowding against his back.

“We’ll work up to that,” Christopher bites out, adopting a covering stance as she eyes the obviously shattered deadbolt and then reaches out to yank the door open.

Flynn decides its not worth the argument – he’s more than capable of snapping arms and necks with just his bare hands after all – and once again steps into the most vulnerable position on the right side, covering his new team mates with his body.

He tenses, ready to-

But there’s no need. 

The entrance shaft and ladder are empty.

“Nobody broke in,” Christopher says flatly as she lowers her weapon, exasperation painting her face. “They broke out.”

Pushing past him _again,_ Lucy stares up towards ground level in disbelief.

“Wyatt?” she calls out as Flynn jolts and also realises the other soldier is missing from the crowd by the door.

* * *

“He um. He got a text. We were just talking about… Hollywood and he- he frowned at his phone and went off down the service corridor towards the basement. Said he’d be right back. Then Rufus called me over to check out Wikipedia.”

“You let them keep their cell phones?” Flynn directs at Christopher incredulously as Lucy details her interaction with Logan right before he took off.

“I made them all untraceable,” Mason waves off, a bottle of cold IPA held loosely against his forehead. “Removed all the GPS hardware, installed signal tower bounce software. Rittenhouse couldn’t triangulate them if they tried. They’re more secure than the safest of burner phones so long as everyone stays off social media and any personal accounts.”

“Reassuring,” Flynn quips back sarcastically. “Rittenhouse will absolutely not know your cell numbers and hack your carrier data.”

“Down boy,” Lucy sighs at him. “We’ll get you your own and you can check ours yourself. We promise they’re safe.”

“The flip side of this,” Mason continues in a slight slur, “is that we can’t track Wyatt either. No idea where he’s run off to.”

“Or when he’ll be back,” Lucy mumbles, pinching her brow.

“Go team,” Flynn deadpans, imitating jazz hands as he flops down to sit on the central couch. “We’re a super cohesive unit.”

“What _are_ we going to do if the mothership jumps?” Rufus questions, his arm around Jiya’s shoulder. “Lucy and I going off on our own? Historically not awesome. …Pun not intended.”

“We’ll worry about that if it happens before Wyatt comes back.”

“ _If_ he comes back,” Flynn injects over Christopher with another pointed look.

“ _When_ Wyatt comes back, I will tan his hide myself,” Christopher states sternly. “Until then we proceed as normal. We’ll jump any hurdles when they present themselves, not go grasping for them now.”

“Yes, totally normal. Hiding in an abandoned cold-war bunker from a white-supremacist time travelling murder-cult. Really normal.”

“Flynn dude,” Rufus protests with a slight smirk. “Nihilistic sarcasm and pessimism are my domain. Find your own niche.”

“I think there’s enough to go around fly-boy,” Flynn drawls back with his own smirk. “Humanity is doomed anyway if we’re the only line of defence.”

“I will take Cactus-Carl and shove him-!”

“Guys!” Lucy cuts over their bickering. “Enough.”

Rufus glances at Lucy and then turns to look him dead in the eye.

“Lucy is the president of the anti-bantz brigade,” he jests. “You’ll get used to her killjoy ways.”

“Oh just shut up and go finish cleaning Flynn’s room,” she groans.

“Yes mom,” Flynn deadpans with a cheeky leer.

* * *

“Dinner’s in five…” A quiet voice says from his open doorway.

He’s just finished wrestling a set of washed-out bedding onto to his cot, and on Rufus’ advice, hung a couple of mildewy blankets in front of the air vent to air off. He’ll apparently need them in the chill of night. 

“You’re all um. Big on team bonding huh?” he jests nervously, eyeing Lucy sideways as he tosses his brick-like pillow to the head of the cot. His next job is to empty his clothes into the filing cabinets Rufus had helped him shove into the corner.

“Well if we’ve got to live together in hiding indefinitely, we might as well try to get along right?” Lucy smiles weakly back. “The best housemates are the friendly and helpful type.”

“I’m sure I’m everyone’s first choice of housemate,” he responds flatly as he drags a Walmart bag across the floor towards himself with his foot. “Murderous time terrorist and your personal arch nemesis. The perfect candidate to sign the lease with.”

“Oh don’t worry,” she rolls her eyes wryly. “Connor’s currently a borderline alcoholic with a chronic snoring problem. So long as you don’t stab anyone, you won’t be the worst one here.”

Well then. Not the answer he was expecting. Still though…

“Still keeping me on a tight leash though aren’t you?” he mutters dispassionately. “Being nice to me in the hopes I’ll be a good little intel slave and play nice.

“You already agreed to give us your intel regardless of how we treat you,” she points out, biting her lip with held back humour. 

Flynn doesn’t see what’s funny. He’s being serious; he knows the motivations behind their attitudes now.

“You know I much prefer honesty to the disingenuous friendly façade you’re all throwing up,” he growls as he tips the contents of the other bag of clothing out onto the bed. “At least then I’d know where I actually stand.”

“Flynn,” she says more serious. “We’re serious about being on the same side. We have a common enemy and a common goal, and you fought _alone_ against Rittenhouse – against _our_ interference – for more than long enough. You said we’d work together one day, and now here we are. Unless we learn to trust and support each other, Rittenhouse will walk all over us; they’ll see the fractures in the team and they will _mercilessly_ exploit them. If moving beyond our differences is what it takes to win this, to end this finally, then we’re ready to accept that. We’re ready to _work with_ you, not exploit you. We’re all in this together now.”

He feels his shoulders droop in reluctant agreement. Phrased like that, he can kind of see their angle. Their reasons. It still feels exactly like they’re living a lie and dragging him into it. Like any second they’re going to pull the rug out from under him and show him the real depths of the scorn he knows he deserves.

But he can grasp the concept and hope it’s true.

“Now stop mopping and come eat,” Lucy carries on when he doesn’t respond. “Connor made Yorkshire puddings again. They’re kind of like popovers.”

* * *

He picks listlessly at his food. 

Tinned beef in meat sauce, (“It’s _gravy,_ you colonial empire-absconding heathens” Connor drawls playfully), tinned carrots and peas, mashed potato, and the crisp batter creations which he presumes are the Yorkshire puddings.

There are a lot more tins and cans on the industrial shelving unit next to the ovens and hobs. That and instant noodle packets.

“Hey, you don’t have to eat it all,” Lucy breathes lowly to him, a hand on his arm and her mouth close to his ear as he swirls a lone pea through his mash for the fourth time

“Prison food was sloppy and infrequent,” he mutters back self-consciously. 

“You don’t want to overeat and make yourself sick,” she guesses correctly. “Want something more bland? We have plain crackers and goldfish? Or we can make some toast?”

“I’m- I’m okay,” he shrugs, eyeing Rufus who is watching him with concern from across the table. “This is… fine. Edible.”

“Just remember that you don’t have to pretend to be alright, yeah?” she pats his arm before picking her own fork back up. “No judgement from anyone here.”

He nods awkwardly, forcing himself to spear another squishy looking carrot.

“You know,” Mason announces rather too loudly, clearly having noticed his and Lucy’s quiet interaction. “American table manners continue to baffle me even after all these years. This whole putting your knife down while using your fork? Madness.”

“This from the man who doesn’t use dental floss,” Rufus harrumphs.

“I beg your pardon! My dental hygiene is impeccable!”

Flynn breathes out quietly in relief as the table’s attention swiftly moves back away from him.

* * *

_“So what are talking?” Jiya asks as she twirls a pair of wire strippers around one finger. “Nightmares, snappish behaviour, a non-existent sleeping pattern?”_

_“And violent lashing out, a short temper, dodgy eating habits, lurking quietly in corners,” Denise nods ruefully. “I’m hoping he’ll stay away from the booze. One alcoholic per bunker is enough thanks.”_

_“Hey!” Connor protests, even as his cheeks flame with embarrassment._

_“We keep him out of the med bay as best we can,” Wyatt agrees. “Anaesthetics and painkillers are tempting when you crave numbness, no matter how stupid you know it is.”_

_“Sound like you’re speaking from experience there,” Rufus frowns worriedly._

_“When Jessica died- when she was murdered. I was a total mess.”_

* * *

Jiya turns on the TV once the table has been cleared, the Netflix home screen soon loading up as she fiddles with the remote. Flynn, having had more than his fill of company for the next _year_ already, skulks quietly out and heads to his room.

Wincing as his door squeals on its hinges, he slides inside and breathes in the reassurance of the closed in walls surrounding him. 

_Jebati,_ he thinks in uneasy horror, _I'm not seriously missing my jail cell already?_

Infuriated by the idea, he angrily kicks the closest leg of the desk, the bag perched atop it tipping over with a muffled thud, and then roughly scrubs his hands down over his face. His toes then start to throb in protest despite being incased in passably-servicable military style boots, and he immediately regrets lashing out. 

He drops his hands to his sides, clenching his fists, ruefully realising that the bag he just knocked over is the one that Rufus' new cactus was balanced in. _Was_ being the operative word, as it's now on its side with soil splling out across the desk. 

“You bought a plant huh?” 

“Technically, Agent Christopher bought it,” he mumbles once he’s composed himself enough to answer. “I um. Am somewhat penniless and destitute right now. Triple life sentence and all that. It’s ahh. For you actually. If you want it.”

“So you got Agent Christopher to buy me a plant on your behalf?” Rufus frowns in disbelief. “Slightly weird dude, but okay?”

“It’s a sorry-succulent,” he shrugs sheepishly, now regretting the instinct to insult which had prompted him to sneak it into the Walmart cart in the first place. “For you know, getting you shot.”

“Social niceties are really not your forte, are they huh.”

“You don’t generally have to make small talk with your targets before assassinating them, no,” he replies straight-faced. 

“Murder jokes!” Rufus exclaims with forced good humour. “I’m so glad we’re at that point already. Anyway, Wyatt was supposed to show you round the rest of the bunker now that you’ve got somewhere to sleep. But obviously he’s absconded from that duty.”

“In all fairness I’d run away too if I was given tour guide duty,” Flynn smirks. “And on your left you’ll see another water stained wall! Next up! 1950s gang showers! Complete with rust and mould!”

“You are unfortunately overstating the quality of the bathroom,” Rufus mock-grimaces, uncrossing his arms and shifting to lean on the inside of the door frame instead of the outside. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

* * *

Rufus was… not joking.

“Infection, thy name is tetanus,” he deadpans as the two of them stand in the middle of the locker room. 

“That sink works the best, but the cold faucet drips unless you over tighten it,” Rufus sighs. “The far end shower is the only one that produces water that’s both warm and not rust coloured. Don’t use the urinals, they don’t flush. Don’t ask us how we found that out. The door doesn’t lock, so you have to stick that folding chair in front of it if you want privacy in here. Those tiles in that corner are cracked and loose, so don’t go near them without shoes on unless you want to shred the soles of your feet. And three months ago we didn’t know the tiles were white! So there’s that.”

“I have pissed in gorilla warfare prison cell buckets more hygienic than this room fly-boy.”

“The first time Wyatt saw the inside of here, he commented that the drainage ditch they found his wife’s body in was cleaner.”

Flynn bites his lip hard and carefully doesn’t snarl.

“Ah fuck, sorry man. I didn’t mean to stir up memories you know,” Rufus babbles nervously, wringing his hands as his words must suddenly catch up to his brain. “I just meant- I was-.”

“Forget it Carlin,” he snaps. “I’ll ignore your insensitivity. Just no more poking at my family. We all know I’m the only one that’s experienced real loss in this hellhole without you waving that fact around. All of you still have your wives and partners and parents!”

“Flynn-”

“I said don’t!” Flynn yells, fist raised.

“Flynn,” Rufus repeats slowly, hands spread in front of him and lowering in a clear _calm down_ gesture. “I’m not disputing your right experience pain and parse your emotions, but I need you to breathe.”

“Breathe!?” He shouts. “They murdered my wife and child right in front of me! You think I can just calmly move on from that!? You think my breathing was steady when I witnessed three men drag my wife away from my daughter’s body and put a bullet through her skull!? None of you know! None of you have survived that experience, have had to live with the person you were forced to become by it! You have no idea!”

“I know, I know,” Rufus says calmly, hands still raised. “I’m not suggesting we do. But maybe- I’m not trying to demean you man, but you could talk to Wyatt. It’s not the same, but he lost Jessica too remember? Maybe he’ll- you and he can share some of the load, share the good times and mourn the unfairness.”

“Wyatt lost Jessica because of his own selfish stupidity,” he hisses in rage, stalking closer to the shorter man. “He threw away what he had with his pathetic infidelity and refusal to try and repair his marriage. My wife is _dead._ He’s just divorced. He and I are _not_ the same!”

“Wait. What? Jessica’s not dead anymore?”

* * *

_“The main challenge is going to be ignoring his attempts to goad us all. He’s going to try and pick fights, start arguments. Rub our failures in our faces, jam his hands into our relationships and shake them to see what falls out. Don’t rise to the bait.”_

_“Like a rebellious teenager testing the boundaries,” Denise adds with a voice full of knowing loathing._

_“I’m not saying you should ignore all his sarcasm and quips,” Wyatt continues, “but just don’t let it turn into an actual row or spat.”_

_“Banter with the murder bot. Cool cool cool. Have I mentioned that I hate this plan yet?”_

_“Sixth time in the last ten minutes Rufus!” Connor cheerful reports._

_“If he does lose it, don’t fuel him. Either calm him down or walk away. Fetch Lucy if you have to; he’s pretty hung up on gaining her approval and good opinion.”_

_“And what if he does manage to start a fight?”_

_“Hopefully I’ll hear the yelling and come intervene,” Lucy frowns. “But please try not to let it get that far.”_

_“So our main fail safe is to summon the friendly neighbourhood historian,” Rufus jokes. “Historian, historian, does whatever historians can. Spins a book, any size, catches Flynns and other spies. Look out, Here comes our historian!”_

* * *

“So you’re saying Logan broke out because Jessica was murdered six years ago and then today he was surprised that he got a text from her?” Agent Christopher repeats slowly. “Jessica was dead?”

“Uh-huh,” Rufus nods rapidly. “Extra, very dead. We stole the Lifeboat to try and resurrect her once kind of super dead.”

“You did _what!?”_ Christopher demands, outraged.


	3. Chapter 3

_“It’s not going to be easy guys, we’re going to have to strike a fine balance.”_

_“Balance?” Jiya prompts when Wyatt doesn’t immediately continue._

_“Yeah. Between not overcrowding him and also not leaving him alone to get stuck in his own thoughts. The more we keep him occupied and feeling included, the less likely he is to have a meltdown. But we still gotta respect his privacy and not over do it.”_

_“So he’s a murder-baby and we’re the babysitters?”_

_“Rufus I love you man,” Wyatt shakes his head with a smile, “but I need you to start remembering that I’ve probably killed just as many people in my career as Flynn has. And unlike Flynn, I can’t say I was always fighting against oppression.”_

* * *

There’s a watermark on the ceiling.

A formless blob darker than the dry concrete surrounding it.

The more he stares at it as he lies on his back, the more it begins to resemble a medieval castle with a flagpole protruding from one turret. An arrow slit low on the left side. And that mark next to it could be a mounted knight charging lance forward towards the gates.

Iris had loved it when he made up bedtime stories rich with knights and castles and princesses and dragons.

Huffing in frustration, he reaches upwards and then punches down into his almost-crunchy pillow twice besides his head. The movement does little to dislodge the gravelly texture he’s lying on, and he lets his arm flop back down in annoyance.

Sleep just will not come.

Sleep is probably never going to come unless he can force his thoughts to finally stop spiralling. 

Another thirty seconds pass, measured out by the echoing tick of the old analogue alarm clock he’d scavenged from the mostly untouched storage closet next to the room Mason has apparently taken over as a cramped machine shop. They’re the only two rooms passed the bathroom on that branch of corridor, aside from the ladder bay that leads down into the sub-basement.

He still can’t believe he lost his shit like that in front of Rufus. On his first day with the team no less.

Once the other man had patiently talked him into leaving both the bathroom and his furious outburst behind, they’d gone straight to Agent Christopher to confirm what Flynn had already worked out for himself.

While the “dream team” had been away in 1940s Los Angeles, Rittenhouse had gone and fucked around in the nearer past. Flynn doesn’t remember Jessica Logan being murdered, because to him, it now never happened. 

Gods, he absolutely loathes the idea that he’s lost memories. That he might loose more and never even know it.

What if one day he wakes up and Iris was never born? What if he never met Lorena? Or what if all these things still happened, but he wakes up and believes that they didn’t love him? That they knew that he would become a monster even before they were murdered and tossed him out so that they died even more alone and hating him?

It’s a terrifyingly realistic possibility.

Especially as he’d never even know it had happened. 

So no, sleep will not come. 

Groaning, he sits up, sliding an overly warm palm over his right side, pressing gingerly at the still raw and healing wound in his side. He’s wearing a plain sky-blue tank top but he can feel the outline of the bandage pad through the material, and the faintest bump of the stiches beneath it. Feel where he-

He pulls his hand away and rubs tiredly at his eyes instead.

His room is dark but not black-out as he swings his legs out of bed, bare feet landing uncomfortably on the cold floor. He left the door ajar after discovering that shutting it made him feel as if he was back in supermax, so the weak artificial light of the hall is filtering in as a single slit. Using the dim illumination, he fumbles for the t-shirt he discarded earlier, patting around at the dark outline of the desk until his hand lands on a pile of rumpled material. 

Once he’s tugged it carefully on and pulled the long sleeves down, he leans forward and grabs the pair of clean socks he’d left shoved into the top of one boot. Then the boots themselves go on, laces left untied and hanging, his pyjama pants messily tucked in around his ankles. 

The door groans in protest as he eases it wide enough to slip through and he winces as the noise echoes loudly through the bunker. When he peers out though, no one has stirred. So he quietly slides out, staying close to the wall as he wends his way to the kitchen area on silent feet.

Given the number of Americans staying down here with him, he’s not surprised to find that the reasonably decent espresso machine on one end of the counter is still switched on and ready to use. What _is_ more surprising, is the proper electric kettle plugged in next to it. Along with an unadorned tin that he discovers contains teabags. 

Remembering suddenly that Connor Mason was born and raised as a Brit, he assumes both belong to the some-what eccentric billionaire engineer and helps himself. He’s never been one for English breakfast tea, but the amount of caffeine in coffee will ensure that he really doesn’t get a wink of sleep if he indulges. Much as he doesn’t particularly enjoy sleep these days, he knows it’s necessary.

Mug filled and steaming, he eventually turns to lean back against the countertop and gazes critically around the room. 

There are three tables in front of him, separated again now whereas they’d been pushed together earlier at dinner time. Beyond that, three brown faux-leather chairs and one double seat couch surrounding a coffee table and all facing an ancient cathode ray TV, a modern flatscreen and topset box balanced atop it. Further right, an ancient pinball machine stands, and then an antique bench press and weight set, the bar leaning innocuously in the corner behind them.

Flynn walks passed all this and steps through into the higher ceilinged area beyond them. There, in its battered and abused glory, stands the Lifeboat.

* * *

_“We’re not taking him on missions right? Like ever?”_

_“No,” Denise insists immediately, clearly unwilling to negotiate over that. “Not only is there unlikely to ever be a need, but we’ve already agreed that his mental health is a total disaster.”_

* * *

He wakes.

He doesn’t remember sitting on the metal steps leading up to the Lifeboat’s door. 

There’s a wide line debossed into his face from where he’s apparently been leaning against one of the vertical posts holding up the handrail, and his side aches with cold. Scrubbing one hand back through his hair, mussing it further, he peers blearily back towards the kitchen, and spots Lucy tiredly pouring cereal into a bowl.

“Morning” he grunts as he lopes towards her, aware his accent has thickened with his usual waking drowsiness. A morning person, he most certainly is not.

“What you doing down there?” Lucy asks him in her own gravel, nodding towards the Lifeboat bay. He absently notes that she looks exhausted, presumably due to worrying about Logan. And by extension the fragile state of their budding relationship? Resurrecting the man’s wife will definitely have thrown a spanner in that works.

“Couldn’t sleep, went for a midnight wander,” he yawns instead of voicing his musings, reaching passed her for a clean mug. “Ended up in here. Don’t remember dozing off.”

“Let’s not tell Connor or Rufus,” she yawns too, giving him a tired smile. “They’re a bit protective of their invention.”

“Heaven forbid I drool on the electronics,” he agrees as the coffee machine whirs. Collecting his mug, he slides over to the industrial-style refrigerator and peers blearily inside. Eventually spotting a milk carton shoved behind a block of cheese, he carefully sniffs its contents before pouring a splash into his drink.

“We have proper creamer you know,” Lucy tells him, dropping a teaspoon into the sink with a clatter. 

“Prefer milk,” he grunts. “Less heavy, doesn’t dilute the roast flavour so much.”

“You could just drink it black.”

“Too easy,” he chuckles before deciding to offer the actual truth. “Ahh, I do if its decent coffee. But this blend is barely a step above instant grounds. Gotta um. Take the bitter edge off.”

“Spoon of creamer, one sweetener,” Lucy returns. “Just in case you ever need to know.”

“I’ll um. Do my best to remember th-”

“Coffeeee,” Jiya suddenly drawls, hands outstretched like a zombie as she shambles around the corner in a fluffy navy-blue dressing gown embroidered with RC on the breast. “Ugh, give it to me Time Bandit.”

“Bandit?” Lucy queries as she steps smoothly out of Jiya’s way. 

“Uh-huh, Flynn’s new nickname. Rufus and I agreed last night. He wanted to go with The Terminator initially, but I talked him round.”

“You were comparing me to a T-800?” Flynn asks in bemusement, pulling one sleeve over his hand so he can cradle his mug without scolding it.

“Oh my god,” Jiya groans with a dopey grin, swivelling on the spot dramatically to look at him. “He knows the terminator model number! You just went up _this much_ in my estimation.”

“Isn’t that the evil murder robot from the first film?” Lucy asks. “Amy made me watch it with her once.”

“Near-indestructible evil _time-travelling_ murder robot,” Jiya agrees. “Hell bent on changing the past to wipe out humanity in the future. And most importantly! The greatly superior sequel gives him a badass redemption arc where he fights for the forces of good instead. Apt metaphor, right?”

“Pretty sure that was different robot in Terminator II,” Flynn points out dryly, sipping carefully at his still too-hot drink. “Not so much a redemption as a complete reboot.”

“Which is why we settled on Bandit,” Jiya smirks. “Rolls off the tongue easier too.”

“Less murdery,” Lucy laughs. “More…. Kittenish.”

“Heh, lanky cat man,” Jiya snorts nonsensically. 

“Ladies,” Flynn mock-sighs, “It is too early for this shit.”

* * *

He finds himself roped into helping Rufus dismantle the water-bloated toilet stall walls once Lucy has more-or-less force fed him a bowl of plain rice crispies. It’s unpleasant work given all the mould, but it still feels like honest labour, so he allows himself to sink into the easy rhythm of drilling out screws and bantering back and forth with the surprisingly snarky Lifeboat pilot. 

When Agent Christopher comes to collect them three hours later, they’ve moved on to peering up dubiously at the ancient cisterns.

“Lucy says there’s been no update on Wyatt?” She opens with from the doorway, gesturing for them to put their tools down and follow her. “Guessing you haven’t heard from him either?”

“Not a peep or tweet,” Rufus confirms as he pulls his grimy tank top off and pulls on a tee and sweater instead. Flynn hesitates a moment before copying him, albeit slower and more cautiously, conscious of his stiches.

Rufus, to his credit, only stares at his scar littered chest for a wide-eyed second before clearing his throat and scurrying out into the corridor.

“Goddammit,” Christopher huffs through her teeth as Flynn also reaches her. “The agent I sent to check out the bar Jessica works at reported them both absent, and they weren’t at her listed home address either.”

“He’ll come back,” Flynn drawls with an exaggerated shrug. “Probably anyway. I mean, if he doesn’t run away with his dearly undeparted wife for warmer climes? Not that he’ll have to go far to be somewhere warmer than this hellhole. 5 metres upwards ought to do it.”

“Your sense of humour remains as terrible as ever I see,” Christopher sighs.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” he smirks as he ducks under a set of ceiling pipes, bowing sarcastically as they meander towards the main bay.

“Oh I really damn well would,” she grumbles in resignation.

* * *

_“Is there anyway we can, you know… get him proper therapy?” Lucy asks._

_“In this economy?” Rufus jokes with a raised eyebrow._

_“The NSA suspect it was the Iranians that broke him out of prison,” Denise shakes her head. “Even if I could find someone with suitable clearance to talk to any of you, we can’t risk anyone finding out he’s here instead of hidden in the middle east somewhere.”_

_“I’m gonna pre-empt Rufus here and say big yikes before he can,” Wyatt jokes._

* * *

A different set of alarms start blaring while he’s still staring obstinately at the sandwich Jiya had placed next to him at one of the tables nearly 10 minutes ago. He glances around in a hurry, but no one seems to be panicking, so he shrugs and goes back to his trashy romance novel. 

Soon enough, they’re all wandering past him to peer at the bank of computer monitors arranged in front of the lifeboat. 

“The mothership landed in Salem Massachusetts, September 22nd 1692,” he hears Mason read off, his voice tone changing as he turns around on the raised platform.

“Pilgrims?” Jiya asks curiously.

“And witches,” Flynn calls out himself. “What?” he adds when they all turn to stare at him. “You brought me here for intel, I’m giving you intel.”

“Flynn’s right,” Lucy confirms with a grimace, “It’s the height of the witch trials.”

“And still no word from Logan,” Christopher curses. “Lucy, go try him again. He needs to get the hell back here.”

“I already left him like, twenty voicemails,” Lucy groans, stepping down onto the main floor and then darting out towards hers and Jiya’s bunk room. 

Flynn watches her pass with his brows furrowed, and then tosses his book down next to his untouched food. She’s definitely not happy about this latest relationship snag, and clearly finding it harder and harder to pretend she’s fine.

“I still can’t believe Rittenhouse un-murdered Wyatt’s wife,” Jiya shakes her head once Lucy has disappeared out of sight. “Why would they do that?”

“I dunno, maybe throw Wyatt off? He starts a family, quits the team?” Rufus suggests, echoing his own words from the night before. “Maybe they were hoping this exact situation would happen? That Wyatt would still be gone when they jumped the mothership?”

“Rittenhouse has to know you’ll still go after them even without a soldier though right?” Jiya asks. “I mean, it’ll be way more dangerous for you, but it’s not gonna stop you from trying? We can’t _not_ try. They gotta know that.”

“Remember when I said that Lucy and I going off alone was historically not awesome?” Rufus whines. “And then you guys told me not to worry about it. Well I’m more than worrying about it now.”

“I’m going to kill Logan with a spoon,” Christopher groans. “Lucy! Tell me you have good news!” she shouts just as Flynn hears a set of footsteps hurrying towards them. 

“Wyatt’s not coming,” the historian announces with a distraught but resolute look as she jogs back into the main bay. “He finally picked up but he’s a six-hour drive away in damn Salinas.”

“Jessica lives in San Fran,” Christopher objects. “Why has he gone even further south!?”

“Don’t know, didn’t ask,” Lucy grits out. “But Jessica served him pre-signed divorce papers and he’s an emotional mess, so I guess we’re going with out him. Wyatt’s doing what he has to do, and so should we.”

“A rusty spoon,” Christopher amends loudly. “My weaponised spoon will be rusty. Goddammit.”

“Um guys,” Rufus pipes up with obvious nerves. “I _genuinely_ can’t believe I’m about to say this, but um. We could just take Flynn instead?”

Seeing an unexpected chance to escape the bunker for a few hours, Flynn rolls to his feet in a rush and shoves his hands in his pockets. Trying to affect a casual air, he smirks and rocks back and forth on his heels.

“The 22nd was the deadliest day of the witch trials,” he reels off. “Only those who refused to confess were sentenced to death and it all came to a head on that day. Gonna be brutal!”

“Of course you’d know all about burning witches,” Christopher sighs, pinching her brow in distress.

“Witches weren’t burnt in Salem, they were hanged,” he corrects sardonically as he saunters forward. “And on the 22nd the final victims were all lead to the same tree and strung up. One. By one.”

“He’s right, that’s all true,” Lucy shrugs wryly when they all glance to her for confirmation. “And it really was brutal. The whole town turned out to watch and support it.”

To his left, Christopher closes her eyes and tips her head back, her mouth thinning into a tight line. 

“And we’re going to Colonial New England,” Lucy adds flatly. “A woman and a black man should travel with someone who has more… Access.”

“Okay! Okay fine!” Christopher bites out. “If he agrees to follow your lead completely Lucy, he can go. No weapons though. That’s my line.”

“You kept your word and got me out of that cell,” Flynn grins, knowing it’s not a particularly friendly expression despite his attempt otherwise. “So I will keep mine. You say jump, I’ll ask how high. I _will_ need a gun though…”

“I said no Flynn.”

“Oh come on,” he protests with a dramatic gesture.

“I’m not choosing sides here,” Rufus clicks as he stalks towards the Lifeboat’s door hatch, “but you do have a history of shooting people in the back Bandit.”

“Like that’s the only way I’d be able to kill you,” he snorts playfully as he follows Lucy up the stairs.

“Not helping yourself dude.”

After one last pleading glance towards Agent Christopher, Flynn rolls his eyes and clambers inside the cramped time machine.

* * *

“Fair warning pal,” Rufus huffs in amusement to him once he’s finished wrestling with the seatbelts. “This ain’t the mothership and flying coach sucks. Hold on to your stomach.”

“Aw come on,” he quips back. “Cheer up kids, this’ll be fun!”

* * *

_“You know what? Fine. I will go along with your crazy crackpot plan,” Rufus mock-sobs. “Operation rehabilitate the unhinged terrorist is a go.”_

_“Knew you’d come around buddy,” Wyatt grins, patting him twice on the knee. “Now who wants another beer?”_

* * *

“One day, I will think before letting my mouth say things,” Flynn groans five minutes later, hands on his knees as he tries not to cough up more bile onto the grass. “Coach _beyond_ sucks.”

“I love it when I get to say _I told you so,”_ Rufus sniggers, handing him a plastic bottle of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now taking bets on how this Wyatt will handle the Jessica situation...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to glance over the parts of the Salem Witch Trials episode that I haven't changed from canon, so I hope you're all familiar with it...
> 
> I also added some tags as content warnings because I am a good boy. Gis'us a shout if you want more.

“Interesting fact,” Flynn complains as he hastily unpicks the hem stitching on the legs of his stolen pants. “The average height for a European male in the late 1600s was only about five foot five. Nearly a whole foot shorter than myself.”

“I’d call you the iron giant, but he was a lot more friendly than you,” Rufus chuckles back as he tries to do up the buttons of his equally stolen vest… thing. He clearly has too much chest and shoulder muscle for it to fit properly, but he valiantly keeps trying anyway. “At least that coat should be big enough for you right?”

“Small mercies,” he huffs as the last of the thread finally comes out and the hem rolls down. The legs might actually skim the tops of his ankles now if he’s lucky. “God, these shoes are ridiculous. Why do you get proper boots and I don’t?”

“Because your feet are as long as the Marina trench is deep? Not my fault you’re a beanpole Bandit. You take what you can get when we do this.”

Huffing in annoyance again, Flynn finishes tucking in his shirt and tying his pants waist, and then slings the grey cravat around his neck with a grimace at its musty smell.

“Lucy? You managing okay?” he calls out behind him once he’s shrugged on his own vest. He and Rufus had volunteered to strip down and change out the front of the lifeboat; Lucy had claimed the dubious privilege of climbing back inside the cramped interior. 

“Yeah, I’m good!” she calls back a second later. “Just pinning my hair up under this bonnet!”

“Why didn’t I get a hat?” he pouts to Rufus again, finally grabbing the long leather overcoat and swirling it on dramatically. 

“Jesus dude, seriously?” Rufus whines. “We stole from some random 1600s hillside laundry house. You saw as well as I did how slim the pickings were. If you wanted a hat, you should have stolen a damn hat!”

“Can I have your hat?”

“No!”

“Can I stab you and steal your hat?”

“Fucking- Lucy! Help! He’s threatening to murder me again!”

“Aw Rufus, what’s a little stabbing between friends? Now give me the hat.”

* * *

Lucy makes him give Rufus his hat back.

Rufus sticks his tongue out at him. 

Flynn mimes choking him with his hands.

Which causes Lucy to swat his kneecaps with her cloak. He behaves after that.

Mostly.

* * *

They find Proctor’s ledge and the hanging tree after a short fifteen-minute walk along a track thankfully heading in the opposite direction to the laundry buildings. 

Rufus rambles about sexism in something called anime Magic Girls most of the way there, only switching topic to their current situation when they come off the open hillside and start heading into the woods. At that point he’s all about pointing out how creepy their surroundings are.

And then rolling his eyes at Flynn for spontaneously claiming to be Lucy’s wife

Another 5 minutes and they’re turning around again, trudging back down towards Salem itself with this Abby character leading them. Hopefully the sleeper agent will be with all the other influential townsmen in this tavern they’re heading to so that they can get this mission over with quickly.

He’s keeping a tight grip on his expressions and body language but honestly? The longer they spend outside under the open sky, the more Flynn is wishing he’d stayed in the bunker. With it’s safe enclosed walls and low ceilings and-

* * *

He blinks and Lucy has a hand on his forearm. 

Raucous laughter bounces around them and he’s standing in the corner of a smoky wooden and hewn stone building. 

His chest is tight with panic.

“Rufus, you need to take him outside,” he hears. But it’s like he’s in a tunnel and the voice is at the far end. He can see everything, hear everything but it’s distant. Trapped near a horizon that he can never quite reach. “I’ll stay and watch Hathorne and find out where they’re taking the prisoners.”

“On it,” he hears. Another voice, just as near-far. “Bandit. Bandit-! Flynn come-”

* * *

He blinks and his head is between his knees and his breathing is ragged. 

“Come on, in and out, that’s it. Oh man, I am so not trained for this.”

“Jebati!” he gasps emphatically as he realises what's happening, what's happening to him. “Jebati, jebati, _jebati.”_

“Don’t need to be a polyglot to understand that one,” Rufus snorts. “That’s it, breathe.”

“Lucy?” he croaks out between another couple of shuddering, forcibly deep breathes. Jesus fuck, he needs to get his head on straight and sort his shit out.

“Keeping an eye on our eminent pilgrim wonnabe-overlords. She’s fine, I can see her through the window. We’re still right outside the tavern.”

“We need-”

He pauses to swallow and then tries again.

“Rufus, we need to go back in.”

“You gonna be okay with that?”

“I’m not broken!” he snaps, shoving himself shakily to his feet, one hand on the wall behind him to support himself. His head still feels faint and light and his lungs are still burning, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do his job as the team’s substitute muscle.

“I know man, but there’s nothing wrong with taking five to regroup. Panic attacks are nasty sons of bitches.”

“It wasn’t a-!” he snarls, biting off the end of the sentence before the lie can pass his lips. When he took the contract with the NSA, he’d promised Lorena that he wouldn’t lie except for professional necessity; even with her gone, he’ll be damned if he ever breaks his word. “I don’t need five, come on,” he finishes instead.

“Okay, but we _are_ talking about this when we’re home,” Rufus concedes with his own anxious look.

* * *

They quietly move through the doors and along the wall to the table Lucy has claimed just as two men are dragging their previous guide - Abby- across the room despite her protests.

“What’s going on?” Rufus hisses as he drops into the chair opposite Lucy who is looking more than a little alarmed. Flynn, still not trusting his unsteady legs, stands beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder to brace himself upright. Surprisingly, Rufus doesn’t complain.

“Someone accused her. She cannot die!” Lucy hisses back. “She’s Abiah Franklin, Benjamin Franklin’s mother!”

“Father of free speech,” Flynn sighs, realising what Lucy’s concern is. “They kill her now, and Franklin will never be born. No Franklin, no free speech.”

“He made it okay to criticize the people in charge,” Lucy nods with an exasperated look. “Eliminating her is an easy step towards tyranny.”

“Well that sounds bad,” Rufus winces. “Okay, weapon hunting time Bandit?”

“Honey, I thought you’d never ask,” he smirks, licking his top lip mock-seductively.

* * *

“Damn Puritans, no one even has a butter knife!” he growls as he stalks out of the tavern’s back room to where Rufus and Lucy have moved to. “Happy you didn’t choose a side now?”

“Shouldn’t have shot me that one time,” Rufus shrugs sarcastically. “I got nothing either. Not a spoon, monsoon, nor a harpoon.”

“Al Capone shot you, not me,” Flynn mutters back.

“But I can’t brag about getting shot by Al Capone,” Rufus smirks. “I _can_ brag about being shot by a deadly NSA agent.”

“Touché,” Flynn shrugs back in good humour. “This does not solve our problem-”

“There!” Rufus suddenly exclaims over him, pointing behind him. “That’s the guy Jiya told me about!”

“What guy!?” Lucy asks in surprise.

And then. Well. Flynn finally gets to throw his weight around a little bit after that.

And mock Rufus’ sex life, which is also quite good fun.

* * *

Jiya’s so-called vision doesn’t seem to have any relevance – at least not to the sleeper agent’s identity – but what they do get out of Judge Sewell is enough for them to at least piece together a new lead. 

“Time for another afternoon walk then?” Rufus sighs tiredly once Lucy has pulled Abby Franklin’s sister’s name and address out of her frankly astonishingly good memory.

“Ladies first,” Flynn grins, sweeping his arm out and staring right at Rufus.

“Age before beauty,” Rufus sweeps right back.

“You know, I was really not expecting this… whatever it is you two want to call this weird bonding thing you’re doing,” Lucy rolls her eyes as she impatiently strides off without them. “But it’s damned annoying!”

* * *

Lucy starts a conversation about the age of most of the Salem witch accusers as they walk. Concentrating more on ignoring the oppressive weight of the sky bearing down on them, Flynn only listens with half an ear despite how interested he usually would be in such anecdotes. 

Mist has started to build as they trudge along, not yet thick enough to swirl around their ankles, but enough to dim the afternoon sun and cast a grey pallor on the world. Made yet more uneasy by it, he tries to take his mind off their surroundings by silently pondering all the changes he’s noticed in Lucy the past couple of days.

(Has it really only been a couple of days since he dug a brick out of a wall, donned a gas mask, and ran for his life?)

She’s certainly a lost more assertive than she used to be. Less openly fearful too. And much less concerned about maintaining every single facet of historical accuracy. More going for a general parallel than insisting on an outright reproduction.

He presumes this latter facet has come about due to her changing goals, goals that have shifted to match his. Namely, “stop Rittenhouse at all cost”. Not with anywhere near as much fervour and reckless desperation as he previously had, but with that same iron-willed desire to take them out placed before all else.

He remarks such the next time there’s a natural lull in her and Rufus’ conversation. 

“Yeah well, I had to toughen up,” she breathes with obvious distaste. Flynn surmises that he’s blundered into a delicate topic, but he’s never been one to back down; regrettably, not even in the face of his own idiocy. 

“Alluding to your extended Rittenhouse slumber party I presume?” he enquires, eyebrow raised in challenge. 

“At least in solitary you didn’t have to face up to the fact your own mother had been secretly grooming you to take over a super-secret white-nationalist murder cult,” she bites out sardonically. “And oh yeah, you didn’t have sit through one sided conversations with her everyday either.”

“Not much of anyone to talk to in solitary,” he shrugs instead of apologising. He’s pretty sure she won’t want to hear it. 

“That _is_ the point of solitary Flynn,” she snaps. 

“I’m just saying it was a long six months, no thanks to you.”

“Pretty sure your own actions landed you in there actually.”

“I’m not the one who betrayed me to Agent Christopher after promising to come alone. Unlike some, I _keep_ my word once given.”

God, why can’t he make himself shut up? But the urge to twist the knife, to focus on the words rather than the open air and the mist and the-

“Why do I feel like I’m watching my parents fight?” Rufus awkwardly inserts.

The fight drains out of Flynn like a burst balloon, and he guiltily shuffles to a stop, dragging the toe of his ludicrous shoe through the thick gravelly dust of the road. 

“’Cause it’s just as stupid and pointless as that,” Lucy mumbles as her own shoulders droop. “Forget about it, there’s the house up ahead.

* * *

Rufus, clearly still wary of the tension that had built, opts to head back to the main settlement to scope out the jailhouse. Flynn hunches his shoulders and shoots an apologetic look towards his remaining companion once she turns back from watching Rufus hurry off. 

“I’m- I shouldn’t have-” he tries to start.

“Flynn it’s fine,” she sighs again as she sets off walking again. “We pushed each other buttons, triggered each other’s sore points. Let’s not do that again yeah?”

“I’ll try, but am pretty good at stabbing things,” he jests weakly. “Buttons included.”

“Speaking of triggers,” she barrels onwards with sudden forced cheerfulness. “You wonna talk about what happened back at the tavern?”

“Not really,” he grunts, his gaze dropping back to his feet.

“I don’t- I’m not going to push but if you know what… what set you off, we could try to avoid it in the future? Or well, past. Future pasts? God,” she sighs, “time travel really fucks over your time related vocabulary. Ugh, I just mean was it the smoke from the fire? Or the noise or-?”

“It wasn’t the tavern,” he cuts over her.

She stops and blinks up at him, a soft questioning look in her eyes. 

“It’s-” he tries. Can’t. He grunts in frustration instead.

“Hey, hey it’s okay, you don’t have to,” she says gently, her hand one again resting on his forearm. Her demeanour is such a contrast to that during their argument five minutes before that it’s almost enough to make him forget about the endless abyss stretching in blue above them for a second. 

“I don’t- I don’t remember anything between leaving Proctor’s ledge and Rufus dragging me out into that alley,” he admits in a quiet, gravel laden voice. “It’s too- it’s too _open_ out here. Too exposed. And I-”

“Agoraphobia,” she winces in sympathy. “Figures. Surprised I don’t have it too to be honest after my own bout of solitary confinement, though I suppose that would contradict the pre-existing claustrophobia a bit.”

“What a fucked-up pair we make,” he laughs harshly, hands once again shaking. “The shut in and the shut out. In, out, shake it all about.”

“That’s quite possibly the worst attempt at levity I’ve ever heard,” Lucy snorts. “And I’ve known Rufus for best part of a year now, so that’s saying something. 

He shrugs with a wry grin, and they resume walking towards the house in silence.

* * *

They’re lying. Bathsheba and her husband. He knows they are.

They _definitely_ have a gun somewhere in this house, and they _definitely_ know who accused Abby of witchcraft.

Lucy knows it too; he can see it in the rigid way she’s holding herself, in the way her face is painfully neutral.  
They exchange a look. She nods once.

He releases his pent-up frustration with undisguised glee, throwing the husband across the room in one smooth twist.

* * *

They don’t get their answers or the longed-for musket, but Lucy keeps her hand on his arm as they walk with rather more speed than that which they arrived with back to the town.

He feels increasingly vulnerable without the weight of a weapon against his side, but he’s grateful for both the increased pace and the point of contact nonetheless.

* * *

The tavern is much quieter than they left it an hour ago, and it's easy to spot Rufus sitting as inconspicuously as he can in one corner. 

The other man darts over when Flynn jerks his head towards an empty table, and soon they’re hunched over three questionable looking flagons of extremely watery ale, trying not to draw attention to themselves.

“It’s not going to be easy getting Abby out,” Rufus relays after grimacing at the taste of his pint. “These Puritans really know how to build a jail.”

“We have to manage it somehow,” Lucy insists, wringing her hands.

“I vote bloodbath,” Flynn grumbles as he glances around the room again, watching the exits and occupants with ingrained paranoia.

“I honestly can’t tell if that was another joke or not,” Rufus mumbles to Lucy, though he obviously makes no attempt to stop Flynn overhearing it.

“Rufus, I never joke about murder,” he grins viciously as he jerkily stands, “I just need to find a damn musket!”

“Nope, still can’t tell,” he hears him say quietly again as he moves away.

He really, _really_ needs to find a fucking weapon.

Sauntering as casually as he can towards one of the fireplaces, he leans slightly to his left as he passes behind a row of travelling huntsmen sat facing the main bar. One of the men has a single shot flintlock pistol tucked loosely into a pouch slung about his waist. He eyes it speculatively, weighing the odds of managing to slide it out into his hand unnoticed. There’s no guarantee he’d also find any pellets or powder to use with it, but-

“Stay right there stranger,” someone says as he flexes his fingers, causing him to rapidly straighten and swivel on the spot. “Need a word with you and your friends.”

He glances over at Lucy and Rufus, who have also suddenly found themselves surrounded by stern looking men with loaded muskets. His lips thin as they look back at him, their eyes wide, and he slackens his muscles ready to either pounce or punch. 

He hears the click of a dozen flintlocks engaging, feels the hand roughly clamp onto his shoulder and-

* * *

He’s running.

He’s running and his head is spinning and-

* * *

The splash of cold water as he stumbles down a mud bank and lands hands first in the stream shock him out of the stupor overwhelming his mind.

He gasps raggedly, shoulders heaving with exertion, feeling cold sweat trickle down his back and off his nose. In the sluggish water swirled with stirred up mud and sand, a reflection stares open mouthed back at him, its eyes wild and hair untamed.

He has no idea where he is or how far from Salem he’s come. 

Rearing backwards suddenly, he flails and slips in the damp substrate, landing hard on his back and shoulder, scrabbling backwards to huddle against the gentle slope of the bank. His back hits it with a solid thud, and he feels himself tilting over. He pushes backwards harder.

His ears ring, his vision blurs, and he shoves his filthy hands in his hair as his knees curl up towards his chest. 

He screams. He screams between gritted teeth as the sky looms ominously above.

* * *

Slowly, the world fades back into focus.

There’s a rock digging into his left hip and he concentrates on the point of pain like a lifeline.

His grip in his hair slackens, and he pulls his fingers out carefully, wondering with absent curiosity when he lost his leather gloves.

The pain in his side flares back to life next, the stitches he’s probably torn another welcome reminder of reality. Gingerly, he presses one hand shaky hand over the area, feeling carefully for any warm dampness that would indicate he really had ripped the wound open.

His vest and shirt are mostly dry though, and his fingers come away without a red stain. A near-miracle, as far as he’s concerned. One he probably doesn’t deserve.

Groaning in both humiliation and frustrated pain, he finally tries to take stock of his surroundings. Miraculously, he’s completely out of the water, but he’s sat in silty muck, the seat of his pants cold and damp from it. Looking further afield, he realises he must be somewhere near the edge of the woods, and when he checks behind him, he recognises the gravel track not 30 metres away.

Not too long ago, he had walked along it with Rufus and Lucy towards Bathsheba and her husband’s holdings.

Realising with a jolt of relief that the sun has not shifted more than an hour’s worth across the sky, he slowly rolls over and then clambers unsteadily to his feet. Staggering forward, he rinses his hands in the stream, grateful that no grit has imbedded itself in his palms. He splashes some water on his face too, and then into his hair, slicking it back as best he can despite its grimy, sweaty state. 

God, he’s such an unworthy damaged failure of a human being. 

But Lucy and Rufus are depending on him. 

He has to get his shit together. He _has_ to.

They need him.

* * *

_“We should talk about panic attacks at some point,” Wyatt insists as they all clamber tiredly to their feet. They have a rough plan of how to handle Flynn and his issues, but there’s still things they should cover._

_Plus, they need to discuss how they’re going to actually break the man out._

_Of supermax. Very heavily guarded supermax._

_“I think the youths call them spicy memories these days,” Rufus yawns. “Man, I miss wasting time on Reddit.”_

_“Maybe don’t tell Flynn that,” Jiya groans as they all finally head to their separate bunks for some well-earned shut eye._

* * *

Rufus wishes they’d chained him up such that he could see Lucy.

The way that Flynn had absolutely freaked the fuck out when those men had come up behind him, when one of them had grabbed his shoulder unexpectedly-

He’s sure Lucy will also be seeing the unhinged horror in Flynn’s eyes in her nightmares for the next… forever. Along with all the other shit they’ve witnessed since this whole mess started. And now he can’t even make eye contact with her to offer even that small token of comfort and solidarity. Instead he’s stuck with Racist-McWhiteGuy glaring at him in disgust.

“You do know that black and white necks snap just the same,” he jibes when his jail mate once again tries in vain to shuffle further away from him.

God, he hates colonial America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still working full time despite *waves hand at the global pandemic* all this. Four chapters in two days is a weekend-in-lockdown treat only ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have now proof read this. Want to go back to bed. Still yeet.
> 
>  **Contains** descriptions of canon-typical violence.

He runs again, but now he does so with a clear head and a consciously chosen purpose.

Loping up the track despite his discomfort, he single-mindedly focuses on his objective; get back to the house, take their musket, save Lucy and Rufus. He _knows_ there’s one there, no matter what shit they spew about being god-fearing Christians. The flash of panic he witnessed when he inquired after the source of the venison confirmed as much. 

He just has to actually get it from them.

* * *

The house is empty when he arrives, and it only takes a single well aimed kick to circumvent the shitty 1690’s door lock; the lock and bolt itself is reasonably sturdy, but the hinges on the opposite side? Not so much. 

Practically launching inside, he goes straight for the cabinets beneath the display units first. Then he upends the wicker baskets along the back wall. Kicks the couches over in case it’s been tied to the base of one. Same treatment for all the tables in the room. 

Within less than 30 seconds, he’s torn half the room apart. 

“What are you doing here? What did you do to our home!?”

He smirks viciously as he abandons the cupboard he was about to empty and turns to glare as the supposed man of the house returns to find Flynn’s carnage.

“I could see it in your eyes, you have a rifle here,” he sneers as he stalks forward. “Where is it?”

“Get out of here!”

Flynn cocks his head down in an unimpressed manner.

“Where is the rifle?” he over-enunciates deliberately, a mannerism which he knows makes his accent more pronounced and his whole demeanour more threatening.

A pathetic punch connects with his cheek, little more than a kindergarten love tap.

He grins as he turns his head back to face its thrower. 

He really isn’t leaving without that gun in his hands.

* * *

One musket isn’t going to be enough. 

With the limited time left until sundown, he’ll have to rescue his team either en route to Proctor’s ledge or, more likely, _at_ the hanging tree itself. Trying to storm the jailhouse at this point is madness; even if he did find its location in time, if it’ll be far too defensible for one man alone (even considering 21st century combat training) to mount a successful attack.

Then there’s the shitty nature of 17th century weaponry to consider.

A reasonable reload time is not something any flintlock-based weaponry possesses, and _all_ of them are one-shot wonders. If you can class something with such poor accuracy as a wonder…

But at least if he has two or three guns to hand, he’ll be able to get more than one shot off before he’s forced to stick a rod down the barrel. 

With this in mind, he sets of at a run again, taking the first right fork he comes across on the track. With transportation being what it is in this pre-1700s era, almost no-one lives more than an hour’s walk from the nearest big settlement. Which means there’s plenty of reasonably isolated houses for him to break into and raid.

Even if the homeowners are in to try and stop him, he’s now already in possession of at least one weapon to threaten them into compliance with.

* * *

About an hour and four houses (plus one farm barn) later, he has amassed a small armoury. 

_God fearing men_ his left arse cheek. All but one home he’s invaded has had at least a pistol secreted away inside. 

After the first house he’d been lucky to find them all unoccupied; apparently neither Lucy nor the history books had been understating when they said that the whole community turned out to watch the hangings and cheer. It made crashing his way in and through all their belongings rather easy, and he now has two muskets, one pistol, a large bone-handled hunting dagger, and three pouches of powder and balls. 

But now the last slither of sun has dropped below the far horizon and his time has run out. 

Now he has to get his loot unseen to the top of the hill and get himself in position unnoticed.

* * *

“Fucking, stupid-” he growls to himself as he crawls through the sparse undergrowth in the darkness. 

Ahead of him, the torch bearing and eager crowd continues to grow.

“Gonna be brutal,” he mimics himself in a whiny tone as his foot once again snags on some unseen-foliage. “Of course Agent Christopher, I’ll behave. I’ll manage without a decent handgun. Everything will be fine!”

One of the muskets slung over his back slides loose and swings painfully into the side of his neck. He glares at it heatedly. 

If Logan’s not back in the bunker by the time they make it home, he will _gladly_ risk re-incarceration in solitary to bring the man back himself. Only three seats in the Lifeboat, held together with spit and hope as it is, which means that he won’t have to come out on another damn mission again if the other soldier is around. 

At least now that it’s dark and he’s beneath the trees, he can no longer see the endless abyss of the sky above.

Finally spotting a reasonable vantage point slightly to one side but otherwise opposite the hanging tree, he resists the urge to crow in victory. It’s far enough back from the townspeople and their firebrands that he won’t be spotted (at least until he opens fire), but still close enough that he can be fairly confident that the shitty, directionless rifles he has will shoot at least _close_ to where he aims. 

Five minutes later and the crowd parts along the path leading to the freshly hung noose. 

He spots Abby at the front of the small group of prisoners before Lucy, but once his eyes settle on her, it’s hard to tear them away again. She looks apathetic and resigned, like she’s too exhausted and numb to care for her impending fate anymore. It’s a lot of effort to stop himself from opening fire right then and now just to try and relight a spark of hope in her.

He bites his lip though, knowing that they will all be better served by him waiting for a more opportune moment. 

“Make way for these agents of hell!” he hears over the cheers and jeers of the crowd. Hathorne, standing atop a low ridge, backed by a row of equally arrogant would-be men. Flynn feels his lip curl into a sneer. “Abiah Franklin. The Colony of Massachusetts Bay has found you guilty of witchcraft.”

He watches as the poor woman, Rittenhouse’s target, is led trembling to the hastily erected wooden platform beneath the rope.

He readies his first musket. 

The noose is tightened around her neck.

The tension of the crowd’s anticipation could be cut by a knife

“Hang her now!” some woman yells, and Flynn squeezes the trigger.

* * *

Aim, fire, drop, reset. 

A rhythm he repeats three times as the crowd screams in panic and scatters like a flock before a wolf.

Two of the judges drop permanently before his onslaught, a third is sent sprawling by a passing shot exploding into the wood beside his head. Scooping his second musket back up with haste, Flynn slams a fresh powder wodge into the end of the barrel and shoves the ramrod in after it as fast as he can manage. 

Two, three jams of the rod later and he almost wrenches his shoulder in his haste to remove it, but its worth it to halt the process of the man about to swing a hand-axe into his face by way of pulling the trigger. 

Then he notices that Lucy and Rufus have somehow gotten free of their bindings and guards and have made it to Abby’s side. And that Hathorne is charging towards them with a honed knife and a look of blinding hatred. 

The ramrod is slammed back into the barrel in near utter panic as Rufus bellows Lucy’s name in warning. Wrenching the cock into place in the same movement he uses to bring the stock to his shoulder, he lines the sights as steadily as he is able. Finger to the trigger.

His heart is about to pound out of his chest.

Too slow.

Lucy stumbles back with a bitten off cry, her hand clamping down over her arm, the deep red of fresh blood visible even from this distance. 

Flynn pulls the trigger anyway.

Hathorne jerks, his second swipe of his knife halted by the shock that ripples through his body. Then, like a puppet who’s strings have been cut, the head judge falls backwards to the dirt, twitching only once more before falling still. 

Flynn pants as he lowers the rifle and meets Lucy’s eyes. 

She nods, and his heart settles.

Shrugging at her with a slight smirk, he turns his attention back to the remaining members of the crowd scrambling around him. Most are still intent on fleeing, but some -mostly the remaining judges- are clawing their way up the banking and through the trees towards him. 

Twisting, he grabs the dropped axe from his earlier kill, and drops the musket in favour of pulling the flintlock pistol back out of his inner jacket pocket. Setting the cock and fizzle with fresh ignition paper with one hand, he rolls under a thrown knife and launches the axe in retaliation. 

His stolen hunting knife goes in the thigh of the next attacker to step too close, pulled back out with a blood-spurting twist and jerk. And then uncleanly across the gut of the raging man trying to swing the butt of a musket into his jaw. 

A ball from the flintlock takes the third judge down, and the others turn and flee.

* * *

Panting, he limps his way over to Lucy.

She stands in the centre of the clearing before the noose, hunched over but eyes surveying her surroundings vigilantly.

“Well that was shitshow,” he drawls as his hands fall to his own bent knees, his head raised to watch her with undisguised amusement. 

“We managed,” she huffs wryly, slackening her grip on the musket she must have picked up during his short physical tussle with the braver of the judges. As she lets the butt of it slide to the floor so she can lean on it, he notices that the fizzle has been knocked out of alignment, but presumes she’d have been more likely to swing it like a bat than try to fire it anyway. Even he struggles with the finicky loading mechanism, and this is far from his first rodeo with them. She probably wouldn't even try.

“Where’d Rufus go?” he groans as he straightens and palms his stiches again, his side protesting sharply once more; he shouldn’t have rolled so dramatically, but it was that or take a bullet to the skull. Needs must and all that.

“Helping the last of the accused women to freedom,” Lucy groans herself back. “We should go find him and then head back to the lifeboat. Pretty sure Rittenhouse has been thoroughly foiled now, and I’m really looking forward to modern plumbing. Well, modernish. You’ve seen the bathroom facilities.”

“Oh god, I could murder one of Jiya’s pop tarts right now,” he moans overly salaciously as he gestures for her to proceed him. “It’ll make me so sick and yet it will be so, so worth it.”

“Shower, pop tarts, bed,” she smiles weakly.

“Ah no,” he chides gently with a raised eyebrow as they march into the woods after Rufus. “For you it’s _medbay,_ shower, pop tarts, bed. That cut on your arm does _not_ look healthy.”

“Compared to the state you look like you’re in, I’m in the prime of my health!” she protests, clamping her hand back over the cut with a pained wince now that’s she’s been reminded of its existence. 

“I might have had a slight encounter with a riverbank and a lot of mud?” he mock grimaces, trying to force some humour into his tone. “Maybe some bushes, a few sharp rocks? Some guy tried to put an axe in my teeth five minutes ago too, but he missed so rest assured that my dental records will remain preserved for use another day.”

“How about you just don’t die, and then we won’t need- Oh my god Rufus! What happened!?”

The man in question comes stumbling out of the underbrush looking like he’s seen a ghost. Flynn immediately steps forward to support him with a hand to the shoulder, which is when he notices all the blood smeared on Rufus’ fingers and forearms.

“Are you hurt,” he asks with as much calm as he imbue into his tone, already sweeping his eyes up and down the other man’s body. 

“No, it’s- I’m fine. Sewell. The horse carriage. It- he got run over. I didn’t shoot him and he died anyway. He-”

“Hey, hey, Rufus, relax okay. These things happen,” Lucy consoles gently, coming up on his other side. “We’ve visited enough timelines now to know that sometimes, some things are just meant to be.”

“But he only stopped because we-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Flynn cuts roughly over him. “Sewell was going to die in a hunting accident three days from now anyway,” he lies, knowing that any proof otherwise will be erased by the shifted timeline once they get home. This? Lying to a comrade in arms to ease the burden of their pain? This has _always_ counted as professional necessity to Flynn. “You stopped Jiya’s prophecy by not shooting him; your responsibility for his death was absolved by that act. Let it go, it’s not your guilt to carry.”

Rufus simply looks up at him blankly.

* * *

In the end, Flynn gently hooks his hand around Rufus elbow, and pulls him slowly into motion.

They walk back to the lifeboat in silence.

* * *

It is not until Lucy pulls the catch that opens the lifeboat’s hatch with a hiss that Rufus shakes his head and finally seems to come out of his daze. He still doesn’t speak though, as they climb inside and claim their seats. 

Flynn decides to let him keep his silence.

“It’s okay, I got it,” he says quietly to Lucy instead, unwilling to watch her struggle with her increasingly numb arm and her seatbelts by herself. Her expression becomes more pinched as he carefully tugs the straps over both shoulders, the left sitting atop her hand which is still clamped over the cut, so he searches about for a topic with which to distract her from her discomfort.

“Those women today, they were all supposed to die,” he settles on quickly, knowing that preventing large alterations to history _used_ to be something she was fairly passionate about. “Pretty big change you were willing to make today, huh?”

“It’s not what I’m willing to do, it’s what I’m _not_ willing to do,” she responds quickly and with confidence. Clearly this is something she’s thought about recently. “I can’t sit back and watch innocent people die anymore. To hell with what’s meant to happen, and to _hell_ with my mother.”

“You’re nothing like her, you know?” he reassures forcibly. God, he wishes he hadn’t spit such vitriol at her in prison now. He wishes he hadn’t said a lot of the things he did to this team now. This team which are nothing like he imagined they were even last week. But he especially wishes he hadn’t ripped into Lucy so savagely over her mother the first time she visited him in his cell. 

(By god, he’d been so angry and directionless and miserable and-)

“Yeah,” she replies quietly, her eyes going distant. “Yeah, I know.”

* * *

Flynn stands and gets the door hatch as soon as the rumbling of the Lifeboat settles into the power down rumble he’s already learning to recognise. His throat still burns with swallowed down nausea and his head still whirls, but it’s easier to control now that he knows to expect it. 

Opposite him, Lucy looks faint.

She stands as well though before he can offer his assistance, and she steps out onto the stair-frame as soon it’s slotted into position. When he ducks his head to follow her out, Logan is stood at the base, an unreadable expression on his face.

With extreme relief, he realises that there doesn’t seem to be an additional occupant in the bunker. It had occurred to him that might happen; if Lorena or Iris suddenly jolted back into existence, you can bet your ass that he absolutely would _not_ leave them out in the world where Rittenhouse could get to them.

Lorena and Iris wouldn’t come with a side of relationship-complications to inflict upon Lucy though.

“You err, both look like hell warmed up,” the Texan man coughs when neither of them move from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah because someone decided not to give Flynn a gun,” Rufus snaps suddenly, pushing his way past Flynn and then Logan as he stomps furiously down the metal steps. “I’m going to shower and change, I’m covered in someone else’s blood.”

Agent Christopher has the good grace to look mildly guilty which is highly pleasing, but Flynn silently decides that he’s going to tell her she’s not actually the reason for Rufus’ foul mood later in the evening anyway. Jesus, three days with this bunch of reprobates and he’s already getting attached. 

The Flynn of six-months ago would be both mortified and ashamed of him. 

“We should head to the medbay,” he whispers quietly to Lucy, his hand going to the small of her back to guide her forward when the silence carries on drawing out uncomfortably.

“Yeah, um. I’ll go pull the first aid gear out,” Logan grimaces in sympathy, clearly having heard him. “Mason! Put some water on to boil!”

* * *

Still woozy with the painkillers Logan had given him, he stumbles into the kitchen area in his pyjamas, hoody zipped up over his tank top and the hood up to ward off the chill.

“Woah dude, sit down. I got it.”

Shaking his head, the face of the speaker resolves itself into Logan’s features.

“Thought you were with Lucy?” he mumbles, cotton wool mouthed. He lets go of the mug he’d just grabbed though, and shambles towards the couches.

“She sleeping and Jiya’s with her. You should really be in bed too man.”

“Wanted a drink first,” he grumbles, letting himself slide onto his good side, head turned to watch Logan switch on the milk frother. 

“Rufus says you really came through for them. Sorry you had to pick up my slack man.”

“S’okay. Was stupid of you, but I get it. I’d run too if I got my girls back.”

“I wanted-”

Logan sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he brings two mugs over to the coffee table without finishing his sentence. 

“You wanted to bring Jessica here,” Flynn finishes for him as he slow levers himself to sit back upright. 

“Yeah,” Logan admits with a tired sigh. “Yeah, I did. Almost did too.”

Flynn watches the other man in silence, accepting his mug with a just a nod, knowing that Logan will probably expand on his answer anyway without need for further prompting. 

“It’s just…” he trails off, proving Flynn’s assumption right. “It’s just that I couldn’t do that to Lucy. I was just starting to- to get over Jessica. To accept that it happened and that it was shit, but that I was allowed to move forward with my life. And Lucy… she was part of that. And now- I can’t throw this in Lucy’s face, act like what we were beginning to mean to each other now means nothing.”

“Not sure that’s how she would take it,” Flynn drawls tiredly after sipping at his hot cocoa. “I’d be more worried about making her feel second best if I were you.”

“Yeah that’s, that’s mostly what I meant actually,” Logan groans, cheeks flushing red. “I was absolutely ready to commit to Lucy, and now I just. _Can’t._ And she shouldn’t have to deal with the evidence of my lack of commitment being waved in her face. And that’s what bringing Jessica here would have been like. I think? I dunno dude, I’m so shit at all this emotional stuff. I was even before six years of not even trying.”

“Mmmm,” Flynn agrees, his eyes drooping. 

“Oookay, enough of my mopey blathering. _You,_ are going to bed. 

“Yes honey, take me to bed,” he agrees with a teasing chuckle. “Lay me down just as you please.”

“Fucking hell, how did we ever take you seriously as a villain!?”

* * *

_“Can I nickname him? If I have to call him Flynn all the time I’m gonna be constantly having trauma flashbacks to the time he tied us to chairs in that grimy derelict hotel.”_

_“You want to give the escaped convict and the guy who shot you a cutsie nickname?” Jiya asks him incredulously as she stirs creamer into her third coffee of the morning. “Sure, why not. Everything about this plan is already insane.”_

_“I’m thinking The Time Bandit…” Rufus grins, leaning over to drop a kiss on his girlfriend’s brow._

_“Um, no way,” Jiya shoots down immediately. “Not only does that sound like a kid's cartoon character, it’s way too much of a mouthful.”_

_“Guys! Come over here!” Wyatt calls enthusiastically.” Connor got into the prison’s mainframe!”_

* * *

Rufus shuffles up to Agent Christopher self-consciously. He’s just passed a laughing Wyatt half carrying Flynn down the hall, the taller man muttering something about butterflies and waving one hand about in a slapdash manner.

A stranger sight, he never did see.

“Hey um. Denise,” he winces, scratching behind his ear nervously. “I just um. I wanted to. You know, apologise for… the yelling at you earlier?”

“It’s fine Rufus,” she sighs. “Really, you meant no harm and you’d had a rough day.”

“Yeah but I still shouldn’t have-”

“Yes. Yes you should have. He’s an emotional, morally dubious disaster, but Flynn’s not incompetent. He knows how to handle a weapon even in the most stressful of situations. I put you and Lucy at unnecessary risk today by sending you out there with less protection than I was able to provide. That’s on me.”

“It all turned out fine though. Better than fine apparently seeing as the term “witch hunt” is now apparently no longer a thing.”

Christopher huffs a laugh through her nose, but it’s much less filled with genuine amusement than he was hoping for.

“Given that that’s the first time I’ve ever heard it, I’ll grant you that,” she accedes. “But Lucy got stabbed and you don’t have to be a trained agent to be able to tell that Flynn went off the handle at some point while you were away. He’s had that look in his eyes when you got back… not to mention I know the signs of someone who’s been curled up in a ball in a forest.”

“Apparently it was in a stream full of mud and rocks,” Rufus corrects absently before he can stop himself. “Aaaand I’m going now. No more snitching on my teammates. Night!”

“Rufus!” Denise calls after him. “Rufus, this information better be in your-! Yep, you’re ignoring me deliberately. You’re worse than my actual children!”

Rufus chuckles and speeds his hasty retreat up even more.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Flynn sleeps. A lot.  
> A very lot.

Flynn wakes with a mild headache and aching limbs.

His feet are too warm.

He still doesn’t want to move.

He’s lying semi-curled up on his too short cot, knees pressed against the wall and head pushed up against – but not _on_ – the pillow. The comforter is tucked in tight around him, only his eyes peeking out over it, and all three of his extra blankets are thrown over him too. 

Groaning, he rolls onto his back and straightens as best he can. His knees are still bent, as his clothes filing cabinets prevent him from sticking his feet through the gaps in the bed’s footboard, but his back appreciates the stretch anyway. 

When he turns his head to peer blearily sideways, there’s a glass of water with a post-it note stuck to it staring back at him. 

Curiosity provides enough motivation for him to drag himself to sit upright.

_Get this down you and then I’ll have some ibuprofen for you. Wyatt xoxo_

Huffing in amusement, he sips the lukewarm water carefully, grimacing at the stale taste; it’s probably being waiting for him all night. As soon as the liquid hits his parched throat though, his brain jolts like a live wire and he’s immediately chugging the whole glass in three long, smooth pulls. 

Gods, he must have been really dehydrated. 

Wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand, he contemplates lying down again before deciding that his feet really _are_ too warm. And that he’s hungry. He throws back the covers and reaches for his discarded hoody, yawning as he zips it up over his tank top. 

He’s still in yesterday’s socks, so the cold concrete floor isn’t too much of a shock when he swings his legs out. Glancing around again for his boots, he spots them beside the wide-open door to his room, belated realising the reason he can see what he’s doing is because light is pouring in from the main corridor. And that he can hear faint metallic clanging and Rufus’ distant chuckles.

Now suitably wrapped up against the chill of the bunker, he shuffles down the hall to the bathroom. The chair isn’t propped against the door, so he slides in and attempts to freshen up. Having finished washing his hands and then cleaning his teeth, he attempts to neaten his hair before giving it up as a lost cause; it’s not going to lie flat again until he has another shower. 

He also needs to shave, but he’ll forgo that too for now. Right now, eating is the more pressing desire, and he’s going to take advantage of having an appetite while it lasts. 

Logan is flaked out in front of the TV when he wanders into the main room, and down by the Lifeboat, Rufus is singing off key to himself and twirling a ratchet around one hand.

“He is risen! Sleep could not hold him, rejoice!” Logan cheers upon spotting him, hastily scrambling upright and padding over to him. “How you feeling? Coffee?”

“Yes, I feel like Coffee,” he scratches out. “Dark, bitter, lamented by nutritionists worldwide but still craved by everyone.”

“Find something to eat, I’ll sort the caffeine out,” Logan smirks, patting him on the shoulder as is apparently becoming the man’s habit around him. “Rufus you want some fresh joe?”

Rufus calls back an affirmative as Flynn wanders the couple of steps over to the pantry shelves, lackadaisically eyeing the selection of cereals. Despite how hungry he feels, he once again finds himself suddenly reluctant to actually eat. Forcing himself to choose something anyway, he half-heartedly grabs the tub of cinnamon toast crunch and pops the Tupperware cap open.

“Sweet tooth huh?” Logan asks with a half-smile once Flynn finally joins him at one of the tables.

“The more chocolate, the better,” he sighs back as he swirls his spoon through the milk. Grimacing, he makes himself actually start eating the cereal, spooning it up and swallowing methodically. The sweetness does actually help, and by halfway through the bowl he’s actually kind of enjoying the process.

“Note to self, get Denise to add cocoa puffs onto shopping list,” Logan chuckles, swigging from his mug of coffee. “Oh, I’ve got some painkillers for you too if you want them. Only standard store-bought stuff, but they’ll take the edge off and still leave you clear headed.”

“Please,” he grunts as he spoons some more of the milk up. “Should probably check my stab wound over again too before showering. How’s Lucy?”

“Lucy? Hmm, still sleeping,” Logan shrugs, handing over a blister pack cut off containing two pills. Flynn pops them out and swallows them down gratefully. “She’s getting a bit warm so Jiya’s watching over her while Denise goes to get some oral antibiotics for her. Not a full-blown fever yet, but there’s definitely some infection trying to set in.”

Flynn takes this news in silence, staring at his unexpectedly empty bowl blankly. He feels responsible for her apparently degrading state, given that she was cut while under _his_ watch. Logan would have gotten the shot off before Hathorne managed to take a knife to her if he’d been the one on the mission. Logan wouldn’t have freaked out and run for the hills, leaving them unprotected and vulnerable in the first place. If he’d just-

“Flynn, eyes up,” Logan suddenly barks.

Jolting in shock, Flynn follows the order on military-ingrained instinct, his eyes snapping up to meet Logan’s immediately. Incongruous to his tone, the other soldier’s face is relaxed and open, a twinge of sympathy pulling at his lips. 

“I could see you starting to spiral into unnecessary guilt,” Logan shrugs. “Shit happens dude, don’t blame yourself. Lucy will be fine.”

“She’s not fine though is she,” he grumbles, eyes dropping again.

“Not your fault,” Logan deadpans forcefully.

“But-“

“Not your fault,” Logan repeats in the same tone.

“If I had-”

“Not your fault.” Slightly louder.

“Yes but-”

“Not your fault,” sing-songed this time.

“Logan!” Flynn snaps, bashing his fist on the table.

“Flynn!” Logan retorts cheerfully. “Shall we go take your bed apart and extend the slats? You really do not fit on that bunk as it is man.”

Sighing with as much audible aggrievance as possible, Flynn shoves his chair back and stands.

“I’m going to check on Lucy,” he bites out, leaving his empty bowl on the table.

* * *

_“People with chronic depression sleep a lot. Like really, a lot.” Wyatt informs them all, offering a plate of toast around._

_“Now that one I already knew,” Rufus beams, obviously pleased with himself._

_“So do we let him sleep all the time, or…?” Lucy asks as she grabs the jar of raspberry jam._

_“Prison records state he was heading towards chronic sleep deprivation, which will be the PTSD complicating matters,” Denise speaks up. It’s unusual for her to be here by breakfast, but here she is nevertheless. “I suggest we let him sleep as much as we can get him to, to start with, and work on normalising his patterns from there._

* * *

He stands awkwardly in the doorway, suddenly extra aware that he’s still in his pyjamas, his hair is trying to impersonate a hedgehog, his stubble has zipped straight past 5 o’clock through to midnight shadow, and that he didn’t put any deodorant on before leaving his room.

Rough mission or not, he has only been here four days. If that. Given the state of his pre-solitary relationship with the rest of the team, he should probably be trying to give them all a better of impression of himself. But he’s still tired, he still aches, and he just really can’t be bothered to try right now this instant.

“You gonna actually come in, or shall I get you a chair so you can loiter out there in more comfort?”

“How is she?” Flynn asks Jiya quietly as he finally sleuths slowly into the room, hovering awkwardly next to Lucy’s bed.

“Lucy is fine,” Lucy herself grumbles, rolling over to squint up at him. 

_“Lucy,”_ Jiya corrects mildly, “has a rising temperature that’s already hitting 101 and a slowly increasing heart rate.”

“What’s that in real people money?” Flynn asks with a weak smirk, shoving his hands self-consciously in the pockets of his pants. Its not that he doesn’t know, but he’s hoping the prospect of a good piss taking will take Lucy’s mind off her condition, if only for a minute or so.

“38.3 Celsius,” Jiya answers him obligingly.

“Viva la Fahrenheit,” Lucy croaks. “Damn Europeans.”

“I’m AmeroCroatian actually. And I moved out here to the states before Croatia joined the EU.”

“You’re still geographically from Europe though, Mr pedantic pants,” Jiya groans dramatically. “Now you gonna sit down, or keep pretending to be a looming tree?”

He hunches his shoulders upwards, arms bowed outwards, and affects a serious expression.

“I think I make a good tree,” he tags on mildly when Jiya only stares at him. 

“You’re such a dork,” she sighs eventually as she pats the bed next her bed. She’s trying not to smile though, as is Lucy when he checks behind him, so he counts it as win. “Now seriously sit down before I pull you down.”

Huffing dramatically, he does as he’s told and perches on the edge bed next to the young engineer. He watches Lucy in silence for a couple of minutes, who has closed her eyes again and bunched her sheets back under her chin. Once her breathing has settled into the slower pattern indicative of sleep, Jiya starts poking him in the knee with the corner of her tablet.

“Kick your boots off and get comfortable if you’re staying,” she mumbles to him without looking, fingers tapping away at her screen even as she jabs him with it again. 

“I should shower,” he grumbles back, but doesn’t actually move to so.

“Boots off, scoot back,” Jiya repeats, still focused on what’s she typing. 

“Why is everyone in this bunker always ordering me about?” he complains lightly despite the fact he’s now kicking his second boot off and doing as he’s told.

“You don’t get free will until you get at least a C+ in selfcare,” Jiya snorts. “Help yourself to books and tell me if you start to get cold.”

“Yes sir, drill sergeant sir,” he mutters dryly, reaching sideways and grabbing the nearest paperback.

* * *

Flynn wakes with a mild headache and aching limbs. Again.

He’s once again curled up, head on a pillow which is softer than normal, but not by much. A blanket has been tossed lightly over him, and his mouth is dry and tacky. Cracking one eye open, he realises straight away that he’s not in his own room, as daylight is sifting in weakly and falling onto a second bed opposite him.

Lucy and Jiya’s room, he surmises. There’s definitely no windows in his.

And it must be Lucy who he can hear breathing with a slight rattle. 

Jiya is gone, but the door out into the corridor is most of the way open. There’s only two proper bunk rooms and both of them are at the far end of the main hallway, as far from the main hanger as you can get without going down into th,ie basement, but he can still hear clanging and laughter echoing down to them.

Grumbling, he once again stretches out with a wince, grateful to note that while his limbs still ache slightly, it’s almost faded into a near-pleasant post-exercise style burn. His bad shoulder cracks as he reaches above his head as it always does, but there’s no pain; only a faint pop and the nice sensation of released pressure. 

“Did you have a nice nap-nap honey,” Rufus drawls as he saunters in, a mug in one hand and a digital thermometer in the other. 

Flynn grunts in reply rather than gracing him with actual words.

“Jiya’s checking over the mass expansion code I’ve been working on, so you got me for the next hour or so instead” Rufus carries on in a more normal tone, setting his mug down on Lucy’s bedside table. “We’ve got the actual entity separation code still stored from working on the mothership, but the Lifeboat needs a whole other level of integration networking due to its smaller size before we can try and cram an actual extra seat in there.”

“You’re um. Trying to upgrade the lifeboat?” Flynn asks with a small sinking sensation in his stomach. He does not want to go on more missions if he can help it; not after how badly he fucked up the last one. Not after how badly fucked up _he_ was on the last one.

“Have been for a while,” Rufus continues on nonchalantly, pushing buttons on the thermometer. It beeps twice and then he crouches and carefully slides it into the side of Lucy’s mouth. The sleeping woman doesn’t stir even when Rufus wiggles it carefully, probably trying to settle it under her tongue. “After Wyatt and I stole the Lifeboat to go after Jess’ killer’s parents, Wyatt got arrested and black sited. While he was away, Rittenhouse tried to up their game, so Denise found us a warehouse and we absconded with the ship again. That worked for a little while, but then Rittenhouse found our hideout so we did a runner. With four of us in the ship. It… didn’t end great for Jiya.”

“Wyatt got arrested?” Flynn asks with gravel in his voice as he hauls himself upright again, shuffling to sit cross-legged on Jiya’s bed, back leaning on the wall and blanket still tucked over his shoulders. 

“Yeah I keep forgetting that never happened now, seeing as Jessica was never dead to need resurrecting,” Rufus muses, pulling the thermometer out and pulling a concerned face at the read out. “102.9. Dammit Lucy. I’m gonna call agent Christopher again, see if she’s coming back with those antibiotics yet. Could you go ask Wyatt to get some cold packs for Lucy from the medbay? He’s over in your room with the blowtorch and a welding mask.”

“I have… several concerns,” Flynn winces at this last part. But he shuffles off the bed and scrubs a hand down over his face anyway.

* * *

He does indeed fine Logan in his room, one side of his bed frame propped against the opposite wall and half of the bed slats a foot longer than they were this morning. 

“You do realise that the mattress isn’t going to get wider too,” he greets the other man dryly. “It’s just going to slide around the bigger frame and I’ll still be confined to it.”

“Already thought of that,” Logan grins back, welding mask raised to reveal his sweaty face. “I may have… absconded with some mattresses and bedding from the motel in Salinas. They’re in stacked up in the hall by the main door. Brought them in from the car this morning.”

“You get a little taste for crime in the 1800s and now you’re an addict,” Flynn shakes his head teasingly.

“I erased all the CCTV footage,” Logan waves away with another grin. “And made sure no one saw me. No forensics to find and given that I’m officially dead… Free mattresses and decent pillows for the time team!”

“Anyway,” Flynn shrugs, smirking again. “Your thieving ways aside, I’m supposed to be sending you to get cool packs for Lucy from wherever you’ve stashed all the first aid supplies.”

“Oh yeah, cool, fair enough,” Logan nods, immediately shrugging off his work gloves and standing. “Oh and, you got another hour or so until I can give you more painkillers but let me know if you still want them when we get that far.”

Deciding to bite his tongue instead of complaining that he’s not at risk of becoming a drug abuser and can get his own damn painkillers, he waves Logan passed with no more than a frown, and then decides to finally grab his towels and washbag. 

The shower’s always been a good place for a private sulk.

* * *

Clean shaven, hair neatly combed and parted, and dressed in proper clothes, Flynn wanders back to Lucy’s room.

Once again, she’s fast asleep.

The sheen of sweat on her forehead is obvious now, despite Rufus moping her brow with a cool, damp cloth regularly. Someone has also pushed her main comforter down, instead covering her with only a thin sheet, and the cool air against her fevered skin is clearly making her shiver.

“The wind came up and blew them in again huh Bandit?” Rufus greets him nonsensically as he re-perches himself on the edge of Jiya’s bed. 

“Not even gonna ask,” Flynn smirks, finding the book on Nicola Tesla he’d started earlier on the edge of a shelf with a length of cooper wire serving as a bookmark in it. Thumbing it open, he’s pleased to find there’s only two pages he doesn’t recall reading. 

“Michael Finnegan!” Rufus chuckles. “Only now it’s Garcia Flynnigan instead. He grew whiskers on his chinnegan? Come on, you must have sung that in elementary school?”

“I spend my childhood in Croatia fly-boy,” Flynn raises an eyebrow. “We were more _Bratec Martin, bim bam bom_ than… whatever it is you’re talking about.”

“Bratesh Martin?” Rufus slightly mispronounces.

“Bim bam bom,” Flynn finishes with a grin. “Your accent is awful by the way.”

“Don’t be throwing stones in glass houses Mr deep and Slavic,” Rufus points at him mock sternly.

“But the ladies like it very much,” he drawls, brogue as thick as he can consciously make it. “It make me… very sexy to them.”

“You’re a terrible person,” Rufus sighs, eyes filled with mirth. 

_Yes, I am,_ Flynn thinks to himself, but he only smiles weakly back, eyes dropping back to his book.

* * *

Agent Christopher finally returns just before Jiya announces dinner ready to be served. 

The mostly homecooked chicken soup is thick with lentils and carrots as he sits quietly in the corner of the Lifeboat bay, watching while Connor putters around checking the screws and bolts in the gyro system. He only gets halfway through the bowl before he gives up, shoving it to one side in disgust, but he managed the whole bowl of cinnamon toast crunch earlier, so he’s not too bothered.

It’s more than he managed to coax an increasingly-delirious Lucy into eating anyway, before he was shooed away and told to stop hovering and worrying.

* * *

They decide they’ll have to take it in turns through the night sitting up with Lucy. Watching as her fever crawls all the way up to 105.2. Trying to keep her cool and hydrated. Hoping that the combination of prescription antibiotics and antipyretics will work their magic and her fever will break.

When it comes to Flynn’s turn, at 2am, he curls himself up into the patched and musty grey armchair that Rufus had produced from somewhere and decides that he’s not waking Jiya up when it’s her turn to take over. Given that it’s his fault that Lucy is in this state in the first place, the least he can do is be the one to sit up all night with her. 

If he hadn’t freaked out and run off like a crazy maniac, Lucy and Rufus probably wouldn’t have been arrested. If they hadn’t been arrested, they probably would have managed to stop the hangings faster. If they’d done that, Lucy wouldn’t have been cut. If she hadn’t been cut then-

He takes a deep breath and forces it out slowly through his nose, grunting quietly and telling his stupid brain to shut up. 

Next to him, Lucy feverishly mumbles something about Amy and a crayon, and the guilt drowns him all over again. With numb hands, he sets about replacing all the cold-wraps, wringing the cloths out in the shallow bucket of water, silently pleading that she won’t tip over that final edge and need taking to hospital. He won’t be able to go with her if that happens.

Why, why, _why,_ is he never good enough? Why does he always manage to make things worse? He’s never fast enough, never-

* * *

“Jesus dude, we were supposed to do this in shifts!” Logan sighs in frustration.

The other man is standing at the foot of Lucy’s bed, hands on his hips, and his hair sleep mussed. The sun is just beginning to slide above the horizon, a thread of vibrant red-orange snaking over the hill only just visible through the murky windows and surrounding trees. When Flynn squints at Jiya’s digital alarm clock, the face reads 06:17.

“You all need sleep more than me,” he yawns, scrubbing at one eye with his wrist. “You guys need to be mission-ready. I’m just emergency back up and provider of questionable intel. The surplus spare part.”

“Flynn,” Logan grunts, clearly frustrated. “I hate to be blunt, but you have some serious self-worth issues. You really came through for the team in Salem, more than pulled your weight, and you definitely deserve to be on the mission roster now. Yes, you fucked up a lot last year and ended up in jail for it, but you’re trying now, you’re doing good. And all that before you consider that with Lucy currently down and out, you’re automatically in the alpha squad anyway! So get your ass in bed, get some shut eye, and get yourself mission ready!”

“But-”

“Now Flynn!”

Flynn sits with his eyes wide and tries not to visibly tremble.

* * *

Somehow, he ended up in Jiya’s bed again. 

He’s lost time. 

He has no idea how he moved from the chair to here, or where Logan has gone. Nor how he got back into his pyjamas, or when Jiya reappeared.

“Flynnigan,” she greets, with an invisible hat tip. 

“Lucy?” he croaks immediately, rolling onto his side to face both of them.

“A nice and toasty 103.4,” she grimaces. “Coming down but still not great. Looks like her fever’s on the verge of breaking though, so we’re doing okay. How are you feeling?”

“S’the time?” he asks instead of answering, groggily peering about, searching for the alarm clock. Jiya gives him a knowing look, but answers anyway. 

“Just after quarter past ten. Which means you’re four hours short of a decent night’s sleep.”

“I’ll be fine,” he grumps. “I’m going for coffee. Want some?”

* * *

_“What about anti-depressants? Or anxiety medications?” Jiya suggests tentatively. “I know a lot of them make people feel foggy and slow, but there’s milder ones out there? Surely something is better than nothing at all?”_

_“Not without his permission,” Wyatt says firmly. “Especially as it will mean hacking into his full medical records to check for any previous history with them, or for any medical conflicts such as allergens. And we’re not bringing it up first thing; we don’t want to risk him thinking his stay is conditional on him being dosed up to the eyeballs with drugs.”_

_“If he agrees,” Denise nods, “and that’s a big if. Then I will see what I can sort.”_

* * *

Rufus sees Flynn come stomping into the kitchen with a deep scowl and wonders why the fuck that makes him feel bad for the man instead of terrified of getting his face bitten off. He still hasn’t forgotten all the times he was shot at and straight up _shot_ , no matter how many jokes he’s been forcing himself to make.  
But.

Yeah, definitely an abundance of sympathy he’s feeling right now.

Wyatt had warned them all that he’d liable to be a long streak of misery this morning, but it appears he may have understated the reality. He’d been sketchy on the details, but Rufus suspected there’d been another panic attack involved, and that Flynn’s humongous guilt complex reared its ugly head again.

Goddammit, this would be much easier if he could have stuck with loathing the guy.

Sighing, he saves all his code classes locally, double checks that its all backed itself up to github successfully, and then starts thinking of the best ways to start a sass laden conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without boring you with the details... normally I work a 9-5 style weekday office job. Due to the UK government changing their minds about a set of regulations _Every bloody thirty minutes,_ I am spending most of this weekend working some serious overtime trying to keep up with the changes. 
> 
> Which does not leave me much time for writing. Yay.
> 
> Motivation to continue slogging onwards appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flynn!? Emotional consistency!?! On what planet!? Nope, here we repeatedly contradict ourselves like men (in a disorganised manner and with false confidence).

Flynn doesn’t know what’s up with him this morning. 

Well okay, he has a general _idea,_ but he doesn’t want to say it even to himself. That would make it real. That would mean accepting that he’s not okay, that he can’t just ignore it until it goes away.

That he should probably ask for help.

Acknowledging that he’s a walking textbook example of PTSD is bad enough without adding the possibility of… _that_ to his mental health issues too.

(Don’t even the mention survivor’s guilt. He’s already aware thanks.)

What he does know is this: he wants to crawl into his bed, wrap himself in all his blankets, and never get up again. 

That would not be the responsible adult thing to do though. Nor is it the kind of weakness he wants to display in front of everyone else in this god forsaken bunker. So instead he slams his way round the main hanger, snapping and spitting sarcasm and vitriol at anyone that comes too close. Obsessively loads the dishwasher, does the remaining handwashing, clears out and then cleans the oversized fridge. Growls while reordering all the pantry food and the cupboards until even Wyatt backs off with his hands raised and a wounded look. 

A much more mature way to handle the numbness and overwhelming apathy trying to crush down upon him. 

Definitely.

_It’s this stupid fucking bunker,_ he rages inside his head. _These idiots that I have to live with, these naive_ children _that fucked me over and stopped me from wiping Rittenhouse off the map. If I could have just finished the fucking job before they lied to me and-!_

Eventually he runs out of pots and pans to clean and reorganise and jars to label though, and the anger that’s been sustaining him all morning starts to fizzle into nothing too. 

He’s left standing next to the coffee table, breathing harshly between gritted teeth, hands red and raw from scrubbing too hard, muscles uncomfortably sore and aching once again. 

Drained.

Alone.

The main room is empty. Not even Connor is puttering around down by the Lifeboat.

_You’re driving them away. It’s your fault, it’s always your fault. They didn’t want you here and now you’ve ended their tolerance too. Stupid stupid stupid-_

He wants to shove his hands in his hair and pull until it tears out. Scratch at his wrists and eyes and cheeks. _Anything_ to shut his stupid fucking thoughts up. To make them stop. To stop them, like he wants to stop the walls from drawing in, and the ceiling closing down, and the light from-

Jamming his wrist in his mouth to cut off the sob building in his chest, he turns and blindly stumbles down the corridor.

* * *

Lucy.

He’s-

He’s with Lucy? 

This is Lucy’s room. Lucy’s and Jiya’s?

And he’s? Lying down? On his side? 

She’s sleeping, fever abated but not gone. Her brow is still slick, the covers loose over her shoulder, and her brow still pinched as if the pain can reach her even in unconsciousness. He watches her from his huddle, knees pulled towards his chest. His breathing slowing to match hers.

“And oh man, you should have seen him the next morning man. Total wreck. He could barely even rollover in his cot. Laughed ourselves sick at his expense. We’ve never let him live it down! Serves him right, thinking he can outdrink an alcoholic Ruskie.”

Logan?

Sitting by his head. Not touching him, just there. Talking.

“Bam Bam always was a cocky son of a gun though,” the other man continues, showing no indication that he’s noticed Flynn’s return to… stability. He won’t say lucidity, because unfortunately he remembers every stupid second of his meltdown this time. “It’s a miracle he’s only died once in the timelines that we know of, and that it’s been undone. Jesus, don’t think I’ll ever get used to that, the way one small change in the past can have so many extra ripples in the present. Jessica wasn’t murdered so now you never killed Bam Bam.”

“Who’s Bam Bam?” he mumbles. 

Logan pauses, apparently surprised he’s found the energy to start participating the conversation.

“He was my… _is_ my friend from Delta Force. We went through the specialist training together, passed out together. Then, a double tour of Afghan. Followed by a short stint in Bosnia of all places. Long after you were there for the Bosnian war in 1995, but yeah. Beautiful country. Got to stay in Mostar a few times.”

“Kravacia waterfall,” Flynn shudders. “Was less um… picturesque in 1993 when I was there. Right after the massacre. Never been back.”

Logan makes a noise, a sort of almost huff that is part sympathy, and part admiration.

“Saw your NSA records back at the start of all this,” the other soldier continues eventually in a low rumble. “I’ve seen and done some shit serving my country. More than most even. But you still manage to make me look like a blue-head in comparison.”

“I was dumb kid,” Flynn huffs back, still huddled up and not moving. “Fifteen and fuelled by resentment and rebel propaganda. Survived one war, too stupid to realise it was through sheer dumb luck and dove straight into the next nearest one. And now I’m still stupid and still doing it.”

“It’s different though, isn’t it?” Logan breathes lightly. “When it’s personal. When its your loved ones and your civilian friends on the line. This- it’s still a war, but it’s also more than that.”

“They’re not- they’re not really civilians now though are they?” Flynn replies sadly, voice slowly growing steadier. “Lucy and Rufus, and even Jiya and Connor. They’ve seen and survived more than a newbie fresh out of boot camp. Sure, they all need some work with the combat and self-defence, but they’ve experienced the rest of it. The fear, the dedication, the camaraderie. Even the shitty food and terrible accommodation. They’ll all get offered US defence contracts as soon they walk out of here. Homeland will take them all on as agents given even half a chance.”

“Lucy will make a properly badass agent though, won’t she?” Logan muses, the grin audible in his voice. “Homeland won’t know what hit them. Internal social revolutions left, right, and centre.”

“Wyatt,” Agent Christopher cuts in suddenly, her words coming from the direction on the door. Flynn can’t see her from his position, but he knows she’s frowning despite the professional tone. “We’ve got a problem. In this century.”

“Coming Ma’am,” Logan bites out just as crisply, body language flipping into work-mode instantly and sliding to his feet with practiced smoothness. “Flynn, Lucy needs another couple of aspirins in 30 mins, check her temp just before as usual. Yell if you need anything.”

Flynn grunts in acknowledgement and turns back to watching the other bed.

* * *

There’s a brief bout of shouting ten minutes later. Too distant to make out the words.

Another ten, and he faintly hears the external door grind open and then close again.

No-one comes running though, and no alarms go off. So he presumes it’s not an emergency. Or at least not one happening inside of the bunker that he can help with. He’s still kind of curious about what’s going on, but not enough to make him get up and go find out. 

Instead, he shuffles slowly to the edge of Jiya’s bunk and reaches out to grab the thermometer. Having done it more than half a dozen times over night, he no longer needs to concentrate to get it loaded up and ready; the button presses are already starting to become automatic. 

He slowly uncurls and transfers himself to the bedside chair next. It’s actually much more comfortable than it looks, and he has half a mind to abscond with it back to his own room once Lucy is well again and it’s no longer needed in here. And she will get better – Flynn refuses to consider the alternative. There is no _if,_ only _when._

Lucy mumbles in sleepy annoyance when he eases the tip of the thermometer under her tongue but doesn’t truly wake up. He smiles down at her before he can help himself; for all his unhealthy obsession with the journal version of her over the last few years, and the crushing disappointment when reality didn’t match his fantasised expectations, he now finds that he prefers actual Lucy. He can see much more clearly how the two don’t match, and the places where they actually do. He can more easily separate his journal Lucy who must have been from a previous timeline with the one before him now.

The thermometer beeps after forty seconds and he slowly eases it back out. A quick glance at the screen reassures him that her temperature is still falling, and he quickly scribbles the time and read out on the note pad placed behind him for that exact purpose. 

Reluctant to wake her for the next stage – cajoling her into swallowing pills - , he simply returns to watching her for a few minutes. 

“Hey, how’s she doing,” Rufus grunts a little timidly while he’s still debating whether to reach out and hold her hand or not.

“Better but still feverish,” he replies without looking up. “Still up above 102, but she’s another point-two down from four hours ago.”

“I um. Brought you some food?” Rufus offers tentatively, more a question than a statement. Clearly Flynn’s horrific temper this morning has put him and Rufus back at square one, something which Flynn finds he actually regrets.

“Erm, thanks,” he shrugs awkwardly. “I’m um. I’m sorry for- this morning. I- I wasn’t very… pleasant to be around earlier and…”

“Yeah, yeah it’s fine,” Rufus half-heartedly waves away, shuffling around him cautiously and placing a plate with a bread roll and a pot noodle stood on it down on the bedside table. “I know you didn’t mean most of it. Well. Academically I’m aware you didn’t mean it and realistically I’ll get over the mild terror of having a spatula thrown at me eventually.”

“At least it wasn’t one of the knives?” he shrugs with a self-deprecating smirk. “Not that I couldn’t kill you with just the spatula if it came down to it, but it would be easier with a knife.”

“Fuck sake,” Rufus grins at the ceiling, his head tilting back. “It’s so wrong that I’m starting to find your murder jokes reassuring.”

“I can teach you to kill people with a spatula if you want?” he offers with a more genuine grin. 

“I’ll stick to just cooking with them thanks. One murder kitten per bunker is enough I think.”

A pause. They stare at each other in silence.

“Meow,” Flynn deadpans.

Rufus is the first to crack, breaking into spluttering chuckles. Flynn maintains his composure for another long moment and then he too, is giggling into his hands. 

“What the fuck was that?” Rufus gasps between snickers. “Meow, oh my god!”

“It’s not even that funny,” Flynn hiccups back. _“Pakao,_ what’s even with the cat comparisons?”

“It’s ‘cause- ‘cause. _Lanky cat man!”_

That sets Rufus off again, while Flynn sits there bemused and confused but smiling.

* * *

Just after he’s stuffed the remainder of the bread roll into the half empty plastic pot, Jiya drags him away from Lucy’s side and leaves Connor watching over her instead. He’d gotten the aspirin down her throat, but she really wasn’t happy about it despite having no idea who he was. 

“Come on, it’s laundry day,” Jiya grunts at him, _literally_ tugging him down the corridor by his wrist. “I hate sorting it all out but Denise insists on it. Wyatt always leaves his goddamn trunks screwed up inside his pants, and Rufus never un-balls his discarded socks no matter how many times I yell at him for it.”

“So I guess I’m helping with that then,” he drawls, letting himself be pulled down towards the main bay and then into the bathroom. 

“Well I’m not doing it by myself,” she huffs. “And Rufus is busy rebuilding the outsides of the two showers he just fixed, Wyatt and Denise are out doing god knows what, and there’s no way I’m asking Connor to help after the last time. So, you it is.”

“I am not rebuilding the showers, I am destroying them with prejudice,” Rufus groans as they pass him, orange water staining his once-white tee and soaking into his jeans. “I hate the plumbing in this place, and I hate that Wyatt started this job without finishing it.”

“Logan can do plumbing?” Flynn asks as he follows Jiya into the small, dark boiler room at the back of the bathroom. The main water tank rumbles ominously as it always does, and the fan pushing warm air around it through pipes and then into the vents rattles rhythmically. 

“Yeah apparently,” Jiya tells him, upending one of the laundry baskets with a wrinkled nose. “He did a lot of community work in Afghan and Iraq. Building schools, hospitals, libraries… calls it silent take-over work, but said that USACE guy assigned to their unit basically apprenticed him once he found out he could fix cars and the like. “One set of pipes is much like any other” is the quote he gave me when I asked.”

“I’m err, better with the electrical stuff than water and pipes myself,” Flynn shrugs as he dutifully holds a bag open for Jiya to shove white clothing into. “I’m not an electrician by any means, but I can spur a plug socket or change ceiling light fittings and the like.”

“What about coding?” Jiya asks him, a gleam in her eyes as she kicks a bright yellow sock away from a growing pile of black and grey pants and tees and sweaters. 

“NSA,” he shrugs as though that explains everything. Which it does really. 

“Python? Java? VB and C#?”

“Enough of all of them to go rooting around the dark web safely. And obvious I know how to use them in conjunction with Tor over VPN and a remote environment. Prefer Python though.” 

“Dark web? Man, even the deep web can be pretty creepy.”

“NSA,” he repeats with yet another shrug. “It was ahh, kinda my job.”

“But if were to theoretically give you an internal network tablet, you could build some basic software for me?”

“Sure,” Flynn accedes. “But it really would be basic unless you want spy malware or viruses. I’m pretty good at building those.”

“Ah, but what I’m thinking,” Jiya muses, tipping over the last bag of washing – Flynn’s own from his room he realises, “is that it’s not that huge a leap from software to firmware. Not when there’s three top engineers around to guide you. There’s loads of odd jobs around the bunker we’ve been putting off because maintaining and upgrading the lifeboat is the priority. We changed the motherboard and all the resistors in the security system when we moved in for instance, but only reprogrammed it with the bare minimum requirements. And the boiler’s timer is close to being fucked. We could just let Wyatt jam another manual thermostat one in, or we could get you to wire the whole system up so we can control which rooms are getting heated.”

“Yaaaaas bitch!” Rufus crows triumphantly from the adjacent room before Flynn can parse through his surprise at Jiya’s suggestions “Take that you motherfuckers! Who’s the water lord now you decrepit pieces of shit!”

“I suspect Rufus may have just have upgraded us from one working shower to three,” he smirks, mind still churning over the possibility of _being allowed to upgrade the team’s security,_ of the _trust_ they’ll be placing in him by allowing him to do so.

“Now if only we had the hot-water and _privacy_ to make use of them,” Jiya rolls her eyes fondly. “Though I suppose Rufus and I can now shower together without one of us freezing while waiting to rinse our hair.”

“That’s been a real damper on your romance, I’m sure,” he teases. “Shall we?” he adds, scooping up two of the refilled bags and hooking a third one over his shoulder. He doesn’t know where they’re taking them, but he’ll just follow where Jiya leads.

“Yeah let’s. And I mean it about the coding; think about it okay Bandit, and I’ll talk to Agent Christopher if you’re game.”

* * *

After dropping all the laundry by the front door and shaft, Flynn returns to his own bunk room for the first time since he sent Logan to fetch cool packs for Lucy yesterday.

And finds that his bed is now wide enough to accommodate one of those European mattresses sized between a twin and a full double; a four-footer, his brain helpfully supplies. There’s two new pillows too, and when he pushes a hand down into one, it not only compresses but rebounds back up too.

_Excellent._

Logan apparently hadn’t been joking when he said he’d surreptitiously emptied half of the motel’s storage into his stolen SUV and _trailer._ He’d noticed while terrorising the kitchen this morning that they’ve acquired a second microwave and some couch cushions, but mattresses are rather a bit larger. And more welcome.

Stripping off the cargo pants and long-sleeved tee he’s been wearing for almost two days now, he sits carefully on the edge of his new bed and then gives in to temptation and lies back. The air is cool on his exposed skin, but the sheets beneath him soon warm up. Even just one of the new pillows feel great, so he grabs the second one and hugs it to his chest. Shuffling so his head is nearer the wall, he gratefully finds that he can now lie completely flat on his back, legs diagonal towards the opposite corner. 

Any minute now, he’ll get up and put clean clothes on, go find Rufus and find out if there’s-

* * *

Ticking.

Ticking and banging.

He rolls over, and find that once again, someone has draped a blanket over him while he accidently slept. The analogue clock near his head sounds out another distinct couple of seconds.

The door is wide open as usual, the main light on as well. Through it, he can hear some rhythmic clanging, metal striking metal. Someone wielding a hammer probably. Rufus working on the Lifeboat with Jiya or Mason? Or Logan perhaps, dismantling the next section of the bathroom on his list in order to repair it?

If Logan is back that is.

He was apathetic earlier, too numb to really care, but now he’s intensively curious about what he and Christopher ran off to deal with. Most likely Rittenhouse related, or she’d have found someone else other than Logan to handle whatever it was. But something in the here and now? Something not so pressing as to affect the whole team, but still something that needed someone in the know _and_ combat trained?

Deciding to go and see if he can find out, he slides slowly to his feet and yanks some of his filing cabinet drawers open. Clean cargos, a fresh tee, and a randomly selected burgundy turtleneck later, and he sets off down towards the main hanger quietly. 

He peeks in on Lucy again as he passes. She’s mumbling and semi-deliriously protesting against the two industrial strength antibiotics Jiya is trying to get her take, but Jiya waves him away with a fond eye roll and indicates that she’s fine, she’s got it. So he nods back and carries onwards.

The bathroom is similarly abandoned, though there’s now a large stack of tiles, sealant tubes, copper piping, and other unlabelled crates and boxes stacked in the centre of the floor. Looks like Logan and Christopher must be back then, and like Logan has been on quite the shopping spree. Or possibly another larceny spree. 

The main hanger is disturbingly quiet when he slips in silently – aside from Rufus’ furious hammering that is, a mulish and aggravated expression on his face. Christopher is standing with Connor in front of the coffee machine, the former with shoulders obviously rigid with tension. 

Something has happened. Something _not good._

When he glances around trying to discern any clues, he spots Logan slouched down with his back to him on the right side of the central couch. He’s hunched over, shoulders almost to his ears, as if he’s cradling something in his lap, shielding it with his body.

And then Flynn notices a pair of floral-patterned socked feet sticking out under the couch’s arm at the other end.

“Um,” Flynn clears his throat nervously, staring at the back of Logan’s head and jamming his hands in his pants pockets. “Lipa for anyone’s thoughts?”

Both Agent Christopher and Logan’s heads turn around with a snap, and Rufus’ bashing pauses for a second before resuming even louder.

“Rittenhouse got to my wife,” Logan growls menacingly, straightening up slightly.

Ah. The socked feet. Jessica Logan.

Logan has brought her to the bunker.

“I received notification just after noon today that a couple of suspicious individuals were poking around Mrs Logan’s apartment building,” Christopher picks up, her arms crossing across her chest. “The agents keeping an eye out intercepted them, but it turns out they were just the distraction and there were two more waiting for that to happen. They broke in and attempted to kidnap Jessica, presumably to hold her ransom or to otherwise use her to force Wyatt off the team.”

“You, um, got her out though?” Flynn asks somewhat rhetorically. Clearly they did given she’s _here_ but he’d liked to know how and why.

“We lost one agent, but the other got her to safety.” Christopher sighs. “Jessica’s lucky that handling bar brawls has necessitated that she learn some basic self-defence. The attackers got more resistance from her than they were expecting which tipped the odds in our favour. Logan and I collected her from a safe transfer point a couple of hours ago after making sure no-one had picked up any tails.”

“Why bring her here instead of another safe house?” he cautiously questions. Checking for tails or no, there’s other ways Rittenhouse could have tracked Jessica. 

“Because they beat the shit out of her!” Logan snaps angrily. “She’s black and blue! I’m not leaving her somewhere else. She’s staying here, where I can protect her. I should have brought her here in the first place as soon as we realised that Rittenhouse had brought her back!”

Flynn raises his hands defensively and bites back the sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue. Kind welcome and tolerance aside, he knows he’s still on thin fucking ice with the team. Especially in Christopher’s eyes. For all the “we’re one team fighting on the same side” speeches, there’s still Rufus’ side-eyed fear, Jiya’s intermittent bouts of avoidance, Connor’s general lack of acknowledgement of him at all. Lucy’s cautious trust and vocal support surrounded by a reluctance to discuss more than history with him. 

They put on a nice façade, but he knows they haven’t really forgotten he’s a convicted terrorist. He’s not pushing his luck by starting an argument when he’s already conscious he’s not really pulling his share of weight around the bunker.

And with this cheerful thought, the Mothership alarm goes off.

* * *

_“I have an idea on how to break him out,” Lucy cautiously offers. “We’ll just need to communicate what we’ve done to him somehow, and clear as many guards out of his exit path as possible.”_

_“No don’t pull that face,” Rufus moans. “That’s the “let’s abuse time travel!” face. That’s the face that motherfucking_ Flynn _pulls right before we’re running for ours lives in 17th century Ohio.”_

* * *

Rufus is pissed off.

Why does Wyatt get to bring his wife here to safety, but he’s not even allowed to let his family know he’s not actually dead? That he didn’t die in a horrific explosion more than six months ago? What if Rittenhouse go after his mom and Kevin next? It’s not like they don’t know now that the reports of his death where greatly exaggerated; Emma has definitely seen him alive and well, as has Lucy’s mom.

And now Rittenhouse has jumped and the stupid fucking alarm is going off and he’s got to go to the damn 1930s. _Without_ Lucy.

And oh, guess what else?

Of the two team mates who _are_ accompanying him, one is a terrifying ex-terrorist Baltic motherfucker that constantly oscillates between a mentally-unstable scary bastard that truly scares the shit out of him, and a hilarious and sarcastic banter buddy that Rufus would actually like to be proper friends with (???). Problem there being that Rufus has no idea which one he’s going to be faced with from minute to minute.

And the _other_ is his currently foul tempered, furious, emotionally compromised best friend, whom he is currently angry and upset with. And with whom he just had an extremely stupid but intense argument with. An argument that is nowhere even _close_ to being resolved. Tension? You could cut it _without_ a knife right now.

Yeah, they’re totally gonna die without Lucy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling generous so have a mini index :)
> 
> \- I work in IT; Python, Java, VB (visual basic) and C# are all just programming languages. I won't bamboozle the non-tech inclined with any actual code or other jargon in this fic.  
> \- VPN = virtual private network. It hides your IP address. If you don't have one, look into getting one.  
> \- Tor = A trackerless browser - like Chrome or Firefox or Safari, but much simpler. No information or data is stored by it, like you get with clear web browsers.  
> \- It's not actually that difficult to access the deep web, just time consuming getting the initial set up right. Google it if you're interested.
> 
> \- Blue heads: a US military term for a new recruit in the first few weeks of boot camp. New recruits have their heads shaved and the particularly white recruit's head look blue due to the blood vessels.


	8. Chapter 8

“Gentleman and ungentleman, this is your pilot speaking,” Rufus huffs as the gyro powers up around them and the lifeboat begins to rattle. “We will shortly be arriving at Wallingford, Connecticut. Our estimated time of arrival is 8:15 am on September 17th, 1931. Please fasten your seatbelts and ensure your seat backs and trays are in the upright position.”

“What about the demonstration of where all the exits are?” Flynn quips as he braces himself for imminent nausea. “The nearest one may be behind you?”

“Embrace the future Bandit,” Rufus retorts sarcastically. “Put on a scarf and be your own air hostess” 

“Embrace the future he says,” Flynn drawls back. “Ignoring the fact that we’re _literally_ sling-shotting into the past right now.”

“Guys,” Logan grunts disapprovingly. “Can we not-”

But then they’re all too busy trying to breathe without throwing up to listen to what Logan doesn’t want.

* * *

They shakily climb out of the lifeboat in the middle of what appears to be a dense copse of trees, the undergrowth and bushes around them thick and wall-like. 

This must not be the first time this has happened though, because Logan takes one look at the surrounding foliage, sighs deeply, and then turns around and lifts up a floor panel. Inside the tiny revealed compartment there’s a pair of garden sheers, a short stubby bush machete, and a small hand saw with a stained wooden handle. 

“You know I really would’ve loved to know those were there in Salem Rufus,” Flynn grumbles pointedly as he anxiously eyes the slithers of blue sky he can see above the tree leaves. 

“I was preoccupied with watching you be sick everywhere,” Rufus grins back with insincere cheer, his mood obviously still sour and his attitude therefore uncharacteristically aggressive. “And then oh yeah, we had clothes to steal and some gallows to find.”

“Guys!” Logan snaps again. “Please can it! Can we just cut our way out, find the damn sleeper, and get the fuck home?”

“I don’t know soldier-boy, can we?” Flynn can’t resist jabbing with a sneering smirk. 

“Just fucking take these and start making a path,” Logan sighs, aggrieved. Flynn decides that the amount of fun he’ll get out of continuing to tease his team mates isn’t a great enough pay out for having to deal with their ire for the rest of the mission, and so shuts up and takes the offered pair of shears instead.

In reasonably short (but regrettably silent) order, they’ve hacked their way out of the thicket and managed to claw their way out behind what appears to be a large wooden shed. There’s a few cigarette dog ends littering the floor - missing the characteristic beige paper of modern filters but recognisable nonetheless – and a lot of recently browned and fallen leaves that have been semi trampled, but no other signs of people. Clearly this is not a well traversed area.

Good. That means the lifeboat is unlikely to be discovered despite the new path to it they’ve just created.

“Come on then,” Wyatt grunts, one thumb stuck through the strap of the shoulder holster he’s wearing under his jacket. “Let’s find some clothes to purloin and then see if we can work out why Rittenhouse is here of all places.”

“And a gun to put in my own holster,” Flynn mutters to himself as they step out from behind the shed to find… an empty school sports field? There’s two soccer posts facing each other, absent netting, and then beyond that two more football posts. A running track surrounds the latter, with bright white bleachers standing along each straight, and even further beyond, a large imposing Victorian-esque building and associated garden topiary.

It’s recognisable as a school rather than club grounds due to the number of people milling around in the distance, nearly half of which would barely reach above Flynn’s waist in height if he were stood next to them.

“Oh there’s kids everywhere. Fantastic,” Rufus sighs in annoyance as he too looks over towards the buildings. “I hope we’ve landed further away from Rittenhouse’s target that usual or this is going to be a fucking disaster.”

“What’s the range on your Mothership detector?” Flynn enquires as they set off along the edge of the field, avoiding cutting straight across the pitches in an effort to be less conspicuous (Rufus is wearing an Adventure Time hoody for goodness sake; they stand out like a sore thumb). “Anthony told me that you could track us to when we were, but not where back at the start of all this. I presume from the fact that we knew _where_ to jump to as well as _when_ while coming both here and Salem, that this has changed?”

Rufus winces slightly at the mention of Anthony’s name, but surprisingly doesn’t comment. Flynn is glad there’s no jabs forthcoming despite being aware he’d deserve them, and so also keeps his eyes down and his apologies to himself.

“We had it – well, mostly Jiya had it down to a 50 mile radius within about two weeks of us starting to chase you all over the place,” the shorter man eventually answers. “We’ve been slowly improving since then and we’re now at about 10 miles, usually a little closer. Combining that with Lucy’s historical knowledge means we can normally work out who we’re after and aim for about 3 miles out. Closer, if it’s an emergency, but hiding the Lifeboat is also a concern.”

“So given that we have no idea what Rittenhouse is after in Wallingford of all places, we could be more than 10 miles from the target and the sleeper,” Wyatt adds in, also sounding miserable.

“Well I had a look at Wikipedia before we left,” Rufus continues. “I thought it might be about Agathe Christie for a bit until I realised that a) that wasn’t until 1934, and b) I was looking at the wrong Wallingford page.”

“I’m assuming there’s a Wallingford in England too then?” Flynn raises an eyebrow, noticing a gap in the perimeter hedge out onto a residential road and gesturing towards it.

“A lot of US towns and cities are named after British places,” Rufus nods as he vaults easily over the low wooden fence. “Especially along the east coast and in the New England region. Some with New stuck in front of them like New York. Some without. Point is, there’s two Wallingfords, and precisely jack-shit happened in this one in the 1930s.”

“Up shit-creek without a paddle,” Flynn muses as Logan starts peering into the windows of the cars they’re walking past. Despite the modest sizes of the houses around them, there’s quite a few vehicles parked up, which means they must be in an affluent area. Not surprising given the grounds they just climbed out of obvious belonged to a prestigious private school.

“Well at least no-one is shooting at us,” Logan grumbles, trying the door handle of a red and cream Buick Series 40 that’s mostly hidden behind a well-trimmed hedge. It pops open easily, the owner clearly not having locked it, and he slides into the driver’s seat with a practiced air of entitlement.

“Yet,” Rufus huffs as he rounds the car and opens the passenger door. “No one is shooting at us _yet_. And they will be later because they always do.”

“Why do I have to squeeze into the back?” Flynn complains as he too opens a door and peers in at the burgundy leather seats. “I’m the one with reasonable sized legs!”

“Actually he has a point Rufus,” Logan points out, looking briefly up from the wires he’s pulled out from under the steering wheel column. “A black man in the front in the 1930s? With another white guy relegated to the back of the car?”

“I fucking hate history,” Rufus whines as he climbs back out of the car. “Why couldn’t you have stolen Mason Industries’ manned shuttle prototype Bandit? There’s no racism in space!”

“Because there’s no Rittenhouse in space either,” Flynn grins.

“Oh I bet there is,” Rufus grumbles as he and Flynn pass. “Colonel Jack Fischer would be a perfect person for the bastards to recruit and corrupt. The international Rittenhouse space station sounds like their idea of a good time.”

* * *

They find an out of the way department store a 5 minute drive away and send Logan in, seeing as his all-American good boy looks help him blend in. He returns less than 15 minutes later, dressed in a beige and tan suit over a teal v-neck sweater, and carrying a bulging woven-cloth bag.

“Here we go fellas,” he smirks as he upends the bag into the driver’s seat of their stolen car. “Off the rack jackets and pants, but as close to your measurements as I could find. Sorry Flynn, but the only pants they had long enough for you were four inches too wide at the waist, so I compromised and went slightly short.”

“Colour me shocked,” Flynn grouses as he starts pulling his modern jacket and tee off. 

“On the plus side,” Logan barrels onwards with a smirk, “I did find you a proper vest rather than a sweater. Plus a nice burgundy and navy striped tie! Well I grabbed three random ties, but one of them is burgundy and navy.”

“This sweater is ugly as sin man,” Rufus whines as he finds his own share of the shoplifted clothing.

* * *

They drive back to the end of the road they lifted the car from, and he and Rufus walk speedily back to the Lifeboat to stash their modern clothes. They’re back quickly, and soon they’re back on the road, looking for signs to point them towards the town centre. 

“Okay, where do we start?” Rufus asks once they’ve pulled up alongside a row of brightly painted co-op stores. “Tourist information? Find a bar and eavesdrop? Get some breakfast even though our body clocks think it’s coming up dinner time?”

“There’s a news stand across the road,” Flynn points out as they all clamber out and straighten their clothes. “I’ll go help myself to a paper and pickpocket us some cash, and then we can find a pub and start asking if anyone’s seen a psychotic red head.”

He doesn’t mention that he’s also incredibly eager to get inside so he’s out of sight of the endless sky.

* * *

An hour later they still have zero leads.

Their spirits had been raised slightly by their successful acquisition of clothes and wheels, but as time drags on with nothing to show for it, they’re all rapidly headed back into glumness. 

Flynn tactfully suggests they find something to eat before Logan and Rufus’ sniping at each develops back into actual insults. They both agree with weary sighs, and hustle down and across the road to the only café without a _whites only_ sign hung over the door. Inside, a cheery waitress seats them in a back booth with only two concerned glances at Rufus, and soon they have three plates of waffles placed in front of them.

“They have literally given me less than half the amount of whipped cream you guys have,” Rufus gripes as they all grab for the provided cutlery. “And my coffee tastes like the dregs.”

“Here,” Flynn sympathises, switching their plates over before the other man can protest. “On a certain level I can empathise with your situation,” he explains when Rufus frowns at him, clearly about to protest being _pitied_. “I’ve never dealt with the same open hostility as you, but my accent has earnt me my own share of comments and slights over the years.”

“Plus he doesn’t like cream,” Logan smirks around a mouthful. “What? Jiya told me!”

“Way to ruin my heartfelt gesture of solidarity,” Flynn rolls his eyes playfully. “Besides, not liking something has never stopped me from eating it anyway.” He emphasises this point by spooning a large dollop of cream straight into his mouth and then swishing it through his teeth to deliberately make a disgusting noise.

“Oh gross dude,” Rufus grimaces as he rather more politely cuts into one of his waffles and takes a bite. But he doesn’t protest the plate swap further, so Flynn smiles down into his own plate.

“Well we checked today’s news and got nothing,” Logan redirects their conversation. “And no-one in town seems to recognise Emma or Carol Preston’s photos.”

“No Tourist Information centre for us to check,” Rufus shrugs. “And I haven’t heard anything while you two were checking out racist pubs without me. Not even about local hotspots or gatherings. This down is as boring and mundane as they come. And this fucking coffee!” he moans as he takes another swig. “They’re actively trying to poison me man!”

“Sit tight, I’ll get you another,” Flynn offers with a conciliatory smile. “If I pretend it’s for me, it should come out okay. Tip yours out somewhere and then swap our mugs, make mine look empty. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Thanks Bandit.”

He climbs to his feet and slides out of the booth quickly, sauntering down towards the main counter with a smirk that he knows from experience makes a lot of women (and the odd man) eager to please him. The lady currently wiping down the tiny pastry display case turns to face him with a bright smile as he approaches, and he knows he’s successfully ingratiated himself already from the way her eyes flit quickly up and down his body.

“Sorry sweetheart,” he smiles with a deliberately nervous looking dip of his head, one curled hand skimming across the bottom of his chin. “I apologise for distracting you from your work, but could I get another cup of fresh coffee? Only my first was so good I’ve already finished it and I’ve barely started on my breakfast.”

“Of course you can dear,” she winks at him. “How many sugar cubes was it?” 

“Just the one would be excellent please,” he shrugs back, still affecting a shy disposition. “Creamer on the side if you would.”

“I’ll be one moment,” she flutters her eyelashes at him.

“Oh it was such a ruckus last night,” another customer groans loudly as she pushes in through the door with two other women. “Honestly those private school boys are more trouble for our town than they’re worth. My poor mother, up half the night rounding them up and dealing with the fire officers.”

“Oh I bet they were a pretty sight for her at least, wouldn’t mind snagging myself a nice fireman one day,” another of the young ladies giggles. They can’t be more than 20 at _most,_ but they’re dressed well and have their hair neatly coifed. In this era of extreme economic depression, they must come from reasonably well-off families. 

“My mother only has eyes for my dear old papa even after all these years,” the first rolls her eyes fondly as they seat themselves into the booth closest to the front door. Flynn keeps on listening with half an ear open even as he keeps his eyes on the waitress now frothing his (Rufus’) coffee for him; this is after all, the first and _only_ disturbance they’ve heard about since they arrived this morning.

“I think it’s sweet,” the third sighs longingly. “And he respects her work. I love my Kyle, but he wants me to give up my job at the bank when we marry. Your mom is so accomplished keeping all those unruly Choate boys in their dormitories _and_ keeping home and hearth in good order. I can only dream of retaining such respect.”

“Times are changing Bessie,” the second pops in. “We’ve got the 19th amendment now, and with the great war over and this depression going on for two years now, things will start to pick up. Your Kyle will be proud that you can contribute to the household soon, you’ll see.”

“I don’t know about working,” the first frowns, inspecting her neatly red polished nails. “Especially not the hours my poor mom does. Though honestly her life would be so much easier if just a few specific boys were given their marching orders. That young John Kennedy is the top of her hit list, she swears it was likely him again last-”

Flynn’s eyes widen in shock and he half runs back to their table, Rufus’ coffee abandoned entirely.

* * *

“We landed right damn on top of them!” Logan hisses as they barrel back into their hotwired car in a hurry. “They want to kill off JFK before he’s even finished school!”

“How old will he be now?” Flynn barks out as they cut up along the high street at speed that will immediately get them pulled over for dangerous driving should a police officer spot them. “If we know what grade he’s in, we can narrow down which school buildings we should start searching in.”

“Uh, well he was born in May 1917,” Logan offers, taking a corner hard but confidently. “And it’s September ‘31 now, so…”

“He’s 14,” Rufus cuts over him, having done the math almost instantly. “9th grade. He’s a freshman.”

“School will have only started the new year about 2 weeks ago!?” Logan exclaims, pulling out round a flour delivery van. “How’d he get a reputation as a trouble maker so fast!?”

“He was sickly as a kid,” Flynn reels off, trying to recall as much information as he can; he’s no Lucy, but he knows more than most. “The other kids called him rat face and he lived in his older athlete star brother’s shadow. He probably started rebelling immediately.”

“Plus these elite private boarding schools usually have you move in a week before term starts,” Rufus adds. “What? Mason paid for me to go to one for my senior year,” he explains when Logan shoots him a confused look in the mirror. “And trust me, three weeks is enough time to earn yourself a reputation at a new private school.”

Logan suddenly slows down, and Flynn realises he’s searching for the main school gates, probably hoping to drive right up to the buildings and park as close as possible.

Three hundred yards on the left,” Flynn clips out, spotting a likely looking ornate gatehouse up ahead. Thankfully the gates are open, and the campus is apparently open to visitors as no-one attempts to stop them as they slide through and meander quickly up the driveway.

“Flynn,” Logan grunts as they pull up next to another future-classic car and scramble out. “Here. You’ll need this.”

Flynn turns to look at the other man, and then grins ruthlessly when he sees the 8 round 45mm handgun that’s being offered to him.

* * *

_“He needs his own room,” Wyatt suddenly muses. “Somewhere that’s his own space that he can retreat to if he’s feeling overwhelmed. What about the storage room opposite Connor? It’s not that big and it doesn’t have any windows, but it’ll easily take a bed, some drawers and a desk. Maybe a shelf unit?”_

_“Oh I see,” Rufus teases. “the murder bot gets his own room, but I have to share with you, Wyatt “snore-lord” Logan?”_

_Rather than dignifying that with a reply, Wyatt simply flips his friend the bird._

_“It’s true,” Jiya snickers, being no help at all. “You snore like a lumberjack!”_

_Wyatt flips her off too._

* * *

“This is a niiiightmaaare,” Rufus draws out in a slightly high pitch voice as he jogs along behind Wyatt. They’re checking out the dorm buildings while Flynn hurries off to find the main teaching classrooms, a pilfered freshman schedule in hand.

Apparently, Choate’s has a 10am morning recess period, because there are kids _literally fucking everywhere._ There’s no way they can get into a fire fight round here.

“This is the freshman hallway,” Wyatt relays to him after they dart up yet another set of goddamn stairs. “If he’s in this building, he’s likely in one of these rooms. We just have to work out which-

Both of them freeze at the sound of distant gunshots echoing towards them.

“That better be Bandit shooting!” Rufus gabbles in panic as they both turn tail and sprint back the way the way they come. “If its Emma or the sleeper, then we are royally fucked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be pretty obvious by now that I'm British™. I try to do my research and I've got American friends that I pester for information, but if you see anything really glaring, please write me a call out post ;) Do remember that Flynn is European though, and so will likely have a mixed bag of vocabulary despite his American mother and wife.
> 
> HOWEVER. I'm not changing my spellings. I'm dyslexic and it's hard enough remembering one way to spell colour and aluminium and so on without trying to flip those too lol.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional CW: several racial slurs aimed at Flynn by Rittenhouse. Nothing that most people are likely to recognise (unless you're eastern European), but please don't go repeating them.

Checking the class timetable in his hand one last time, Flynn jogs as best he can through the sea of teenage boys, frantically searching for English Literature classroom 4A. He’s already managed to find the exceedingly archaic chemistry lab the boy should have just had a lesson in (well, archaic to Flynn’s eyes. No doubt it’s almost cutting edge for the 30s), but that room had already emptied out except for one straggler.

One straggler who was definitely not a young John Kennedy.

He keeps his gun out of sight in his holster under his jacket, but his hand hovers near it as he pushes past a group of probable seniors obnoxiously ordering two younger boys to dust their dorm rooms after dinner. The crowds are beginning to thin as he carries on checking the numbering on every door, more of the kids heading to their next class with every step he takes. But he still finds himself having to weave through them and avoid the eyes of the school masters and other staff he occasionally passes. 

Any one of those adults could be the sleeper. Any one of them could recognise him as one of Rittenhouse’s biggest problems and open fire.

“Master Gardener is about to intercept him now,” he then hears one such teacher mumble to an older matronly looking woman in housekeeping attire as he passes. Sheer dumb luck that he’s passing as they’re saying it. Even more sheer dumb luck that they don’t look up at him. “Once he has the boy in his office, it’ll only take one bullet and this part of history will be ours.”

And oh. Oh shit. 

_Oh fucking shit._

There’s more than one sleeper and Flynn has to find that office _right fucking now._

Swallowing hard and forcing himself not to speed up until he rounds the corner out of Rittenhouse’s sight, he does so and then hastily grabs the first lone teenager he spots.

“Where is Gardener’s office?” he growls to the poor terrified youth, his hand clenched over the knot of his tie. “Out with it boy, I’m FBI and your school mate is in danger,” he adds when all he gets is a look of pure fear.

“D- down the end of this hall, left along the garden walk corridor and it-it’s the wooden door just after the arch,” the kid stammers, looking about 10 seconds away from bursting into tears. “Straight up the stairs and it’s on the right opposite the bay window.”

“Good lad,” he grunts, releasing his grip and tugging the boy’s shirt and jacket straight. “Now run to the headmaster’s office and tell him that Russian commies have infiltrated his staff and are targeting his students. Make sure you tell him that three FBI agents are here too.”

The kid nods frantically, hands shaking, and then darts off like someone lit a fire under him. Flynn only watches his back for a short moment before also turning and breaking into a sprint in the opposite direction. 

He finds what must be the garden walk corridor a matter of seconds later, daylight pouring in through open-air window arches. A door opens unexpectedly on his right, and he swerves round it, his shoulder clipping yet another loitering boy as he dodges. They both go staggering, and Flynn is about to growl but carry on running when he does a double take.

“You’re Lem Billings!” he gasps as he scrambles back to his feet, eyes wide.

“Indeed sir?” the young man gawps back, also climbing back upright.

“FBI,” Flynn clips out, deciding it’s wise to lead with that bullshit this time. “Have you seen Kennedy?”

“Jack sir? He just now left to attend to Master Gardener’s summons sir. Unless you mean the elder Mr Kennedy, in which case I-”

“Find a teacher, get everyone out of this building,” he cuts over the still wide-eyed Lem. Then, pulling the left side of his jacket open to show his holster, he narrows his eyes intently and adds, “There’s about to be a shoot-out. Get yourself and the rest of the kids clear.”

And then he’s off running again, slamming through the wooden door and clambering up the revealed staircase three steps at a time.

* * *

One dead sleeper agent later, and he has a terrified fourteen year old cowering against his side as they crouch behind Gardener’s overturned desk, bullets pelting the wall behind them. This mission is really going _swimmingly._

Flynn’s already used the entirety of one clip, and he only has one more spare. 

“Logan!” he bellows towards the door from where they’re being assaulted, praying that he and Rufus heard the first volley of shots and have come running. “Little help!”

“Ain’t no-one coming to save you, you damn Chetnick!” the matronly women from before chuckles harshly. Another bullet embeds itself in the wall.

“I’m from Croatia, you racist bitch!” Flynn shouts back, popping up from behind their cover to fire off another two rounds. Idiot woman, using a Croat slur aimed at Serbians when he _is_ a Croat. He’s not even spouted such bigotry himself since he was young, foolish, and blinded by propaganda. And he’s one of the people who bore the brunt of the Serb's attempt to quell the rebellion.

He may not be a good man, but Flynn tries to be an accepting one these days. And that includes recognising and accepting that his old prejudices were ignorant and out of line.

“Oh god, I’m going to die,” Jack Kennedy moans next to him as the crazed Rittenhouse fanatic screams some more generic insults in their direction, more shrapnel lodging itself in the wall and showering down onto them. Gardener’s lifeless body continues to stare blankly at them from where it’s lying motionless alongside them. 

“Flynn!” he suddenly hears yelled, followed by a feminine shriek of rage and another hail of bullets. “Bandit where are you!?”

“In here!” he calls back, turning and bracing himself ready to fire.

“Oh god, oh god,” Kennedy pants, his eyes closed.

Suddenly Rufus is barrelling into the room with a grim look on his face. Flynn grasps the arm that is offered gratefully and lets himself be hauled to his feet, his other hand keeping steady grip on his gun, his eyes towards the doorway.

“Get Kennedy up, we need to move,” he clips out once he’s standing steady, nodding once to Logan who is now also stood in the doorway with back to the room.

“The sleeper got away, we’ll have to find her,” Logan grunts as they hurry out of the office and back down the stairs Flynn used earlier. “Or she’ll just wait for us to leave and try again.”

“She’s not the only sleeper,” Flynn bites off as he turns to jog half-backwards, guarding their rear as they move rapidly down the garden walk. “The body in the office was one too, and there’s at least one more guy as well the woman you ran off.”

“There’s three of them!?” Rufus hisses. “He’s fourteen! Talk about overkill.”

"Two now," Flynn corrects. "I already killed one."

“We get Kennedy out of here,” Logan grunts lowly as he checks around the corner they’ve just reached. “Get him out of sight and out of harm's immediate way. Then we can-”

The end of his sentence is lost in yet another series of loud shots, Logan slamming himself behind the cover of a sandstone pillar and Rufus pushing Kennedy’s head down as he crouches below window level himself. 

“Door,” Kennedy gasps in obvious panic, one hand pointing unsteadily to the opposite side of the hallway. “The dining room. Another exit out the back.”

“Covering it,” Flynn grunts, sliding across to it hastily even as Logan swears and ejects an empty clip. He wrenches the door open, surveys the room beyond as fast as he dare, and upon finding it empty, gestures frantically for Rufus to pull the kid through.

He’s punching out a glass pane and circumventing the lock on the patio-style door adjacent to the food serving hatch before Logan has even managed to close the first door behind them.

And then they’re running again.

* * *

Everything is rapidly going to shit. 

When Flynn had sent that kid running to the headmaster and then told Lem Billings to get everyone cleared out of the buildings, he hadn’t anticipated _this_ happening. 

_This_ being everyone congregating on the driveway and sports fields, milling about uselessly and peering back towards the buildings curiously with complete disregard for their own safety. Honestly, a quarter of them don’t even the good sense to dive for cover when not two, but _three_ Rittenhouse agents charge at them guns blazing. 

And now Jack is unconscious in Rufus’ arms having been elbowed in the head by a flailing and screaming seventeen year old with a bullet in his shoulder. And Flynn can’t fucking shoot back without risking shooting a _child_ by accident. 

“Get to the bleachers!” he yells, covering Rufus with his body as they sprint haphazardly past a couple of distraught teacher who are trying to drag a group of younger kids away from the danger. “We can use them as cover and these sleepers will be forced to cross the open pitch to get to us!”

“On it!” Logan calls back, already bulldozing his way forward.

Only when they get there, there’s a group of older students and another teacher who’ve had a similar idea regarding the cover and are running across the field pulling along other smaller kids. And effectively using themselves as human shields for the Rittenhouse agents.

“New plan please!” Rufus begs, shifting the dead-weight of Kennedy in his arms with a strained grimace. There’s no way they can hit any of the sleepers from here without out also firing into the crowd of children.

“Make a break for the Lifeboat?” Logan suggests. “We can use those sheds as cover until they’re close enough to flank it, and then retreat up the path we hacked and bottleneck them?”

“There’s a soccer pitch between us and the sheds,” Rufus moans. “And this kid weighs a fucking tonne.”

“Take my gun, I got him,” Flynn snaps out hastily, pulling Kennedy into his own arms. “And get ready to run for it.”

Without checking to see whether they’re keeping up with him, Flynn hauls the boy into a fireman’s lift, darts out of the back of the bleachers, and legs it as fast he can manage across the grass. He doesn’t hear any more gunfire, but he’s also not concentrating on anything other than reaching the shelter of the sheds as fast as possible.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Rufus gasps at him raggedly once he’s caught up. “You run like fucking Usain Bolt man.” 

And then once again they’re cowering and trying to take pot shots at the rapidly approaching murderous fanatics.

* * *

_Wyatt taps his lips thoughtfully, leaning back on the shitty bunker couch with a beer in one hand._

_“It could work,” he muses. “They haven’t changed the layout of that section of the prison since it was built. Other parts? Yeah, they’ve built extensions and moved walls and redone the wiring and plumbing… but solitary?”_

_“As empty and dreary as the day they opened business,” Connor confirms. “What? US prisons are all run as businesses! That’s why there’s so many young, black, minor drug offenders in them!”_

_“He’s right you know,” Lucy sighs grimly, knocking back a shot of vodka._

* * *

This mission isn’t rapidly _going_ to shit. It’s rapidly _gone_ to shit.

Flynn lies flat behind a fallen log, breathing as quietly as he can while the woman once again shrieks in outrage. He’s really seriously praying hard that it doesn’t occur to them that the Lifeboat still only has a three-person capacity and they can’t all have vanished in the time-ship.

Logan and Rufus have jumped back to 2017 without him.

And _with_ an unconscious JFK strapped into Flynn’s seat. Lucy will kill them if she’s awake and alert enough to find out what they’ve done.

“We’ll just have to wait for them to come back,” one of the male sleepers sighs. “Come on, we should restock our ammo and clear off before the police show up. Someone will have called them by now, and we weren’t exactly hiding our faces while open firing.”

“Whittmore will kill us if she finds out we botched this,” the other man grumbles as Flynn listens to them kick at the flattened foliage where the Lifeboat had sat a minute ago.

“We haven’t botched it,” the woman declares haughtily. “There’s simply been a delay in the proceedings. They will have to bring the boy back here eventually else those vagabonds might as well have let us kill him. And when they do, we will be waiting to finish the job.”

The first man says something in reply with annoyed tone, but the words are lost in the sounds of the three of them stomping noisily back out towards the school. Waiting until he can’t hear their footsteps anymore, Flynn finally eases himself to sit back up right. He quickly takes stock to make sure he’s safely pocketed all the ammo clips and the extra gun that Logan had tossed him before climbing up to the Lifeboat’s door hatch, and then stands and brushes the dirt and leaves off of his suit and out of his hair.

Creeping along the cut-path with much more caution than the sleepers had, he keeps his eyes on his feet and on where his next step will be. Without the adrenaline and tense situation holding all of his attention, he’s no longer distracted from how exposed and unsecure being outside makes him feel. And now he doesn’t have Rufus’ banter or Logan’s quiet presence to take the edge off either.

Padding silently to the edge of the shed once again, gun in hand, he peers carefully round the edge and spots his three targets hurrying towards the same fence-gap the three of them had climbed through earlier this morning. He waits until they’ve hoisted themselves through, and then decides he can probably keep up the FBI ruse a little longer and starts to jog over towards the school gates and the crowd that’s regathering there.

* * *

Having quickly spun the town’s Sheriff and the school’s headmaster quite the alarming tale, Flynn folds himself into the drivers seat of Logan’s stolen car, and races to the end of the street that runs along the back of the school grounds. He’s probably going to arrive far too late to cut them off, but there’s a small chance he’ll succeed. 

Pulling up to one side of the three way intersection, he eases forward until he can see down the road, but no luck. As suspected, the three would-be murders are long gone. Hoping therefore that they are still on foot, he continues on down the main road heading away from the school. But if they also helped themselves to a local’s car he’s not likely to catch up to them.

He’ll have to wait until they return to the school to try and ambush the Lifeboat. Which really does not sound ideal.

* * *

After an hour of driving circles around the town uselessly, and he gives up and heads back to the school in disgust.

He doesn’t know when Rufus and Logan will come back. Whether they’ll wait four hours to match the recharge time or wait until tomorrow morning. Or if they’ve already jumped back and are now waiting for him. 

Or maybe they’ll wait a week or two. 

Who knows? Not Flynn, that’s for sure. There hadn’t exactly been time to discuss the details of that part of the plan, as they were all rather preoccupied with lugging JFK inside the Lifeboat and firing enough bullets down the path to hold off the sleepers. Flynn had barely managed to throw himself behind that log and hide before the Rittenhouse goons had realised what was about to happen and come charging onwards.

The flip side of this is that the three sleepers also don’t know when the Lifeboat will return, so they’ll have to stake out the copse of trees if they want to stick to their ambush plan.

They also still don’t know that Flynn stayed behind. Which means Flynn’s in the perfect position to ambush their ambush. 

First up, he pulls back in through the main school gate and jogs over to speak to the deputy officer that had been told to stay put and help the school staff get all the kids back inside. A quick conversation with him later and Flynn knows that the Sheriff had gotten the three rogue staff member’s personal addresses from the school’s admin team and then gone to see if they’d gone to ground there. 

Flynn had considered that himself before taking off but had written it off as a waste of time; he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t be that stupid, even if they _are_ brainwashed Rittenhouse fanatics.

Having ascertained that they haven’t been seen around the main school buildings at least, he informs the deputy that he’s going to do a wider sweep of the grounds and that he should whistle three times if anything changes. The young lad nods eagerly, promising to tell the school staff of his plans so that they don’t freak at the sight of a strange man prowling round the sports fields so soon after a shoot-out.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Flynn grumbles to himself as he shuffles slowly along the hedge back towards the sports sheds yet again. “Second damn mission and I’ve already been hung out to dry. We’ll be back soon Flynn, hide Flynn!”

Slightly uncharitable of him he knows, seeing as it was his damn idea. But faced with the prospect of facing off against not one, but _three_ Rittenhouse agents by himself, and then cooling his heels around this shitty little town for what could potentially be weeks…

Well, he’s _feeling_ less charitable by the minute.

(he’s not looking at the sky, he’s not looking at the sky, he’s not-)

He passes the gap in the hedge, checking quickly through it to make sure he’s not going to be pounced on from behind. The section of road he can see is empty, so he eases one of his pistols into his hands, checks the clip and safety, and then stalks the rest of the way over to the sheds.

He’s barely gotten within 100 metres of it when he realises he can hear voices. Adult voices.

Slowing his steps and raising his hands slightly, he moves carefully forwards. 

Steps over some fallen twigs. Footfalls soft and muted by the spongy grass and damp fallen leaves. 

They’re up the cut path. Moving around in the clearing created by the Lifeboat.

Rittenhouse’s sleepers.

And they’re not watching their backs.

Quietly, Flynn picks his way over to one of the wider trees, feet slipping with practiced ease around anything that might crack or snap loudly. The taller grass and undergrowth is damp around his knees, but he ignores it in favour of cautiously peering further into the clearing.

The two men are inspecting the area around the fallen tree trunk Flynn hid behind earlier, while the woman is erecting a crude barrier closer to the path’s entrance with other branches and logs. The path itself is much more well trampled now, clearly having been used a lot in the last hour, providing Flynn with a clear route straight up to the women’s back. 

He doesn’t take it though, knowing that the two men will have the tactical advantage over him the second he pulls the trigger. They’ll jump behind that trunk, and Flynn will be left open and exposed to return fire, too far from any accessible trees. Instead, he slips down onto his stomach, and as silently as possible, crawls under a tangle over ivy covering a dead bush.

Within minutes, he’s halfway to the clearing, ducked behind another fallen log and a wide tree trunk.

With a clear view of more than two thirds of the landing zone.

And two ways of retreating but maintaining cover. 

Easing himself onto one knee and taking aim at the woman who’s back is _still_ turned towards him, he nudges the safety off, muffling the click with his other hand as much as he can. The three agents are making more than enough noise to cover the small sound though, and-

He double taps the trigger and ducks behind the fallen log quickly.

A hoarse yell as the first bullet slams through her chest, a yell that cuts off as the second finds its mark in the back of her skull. A roar of outrage as one man jumps straight to anger, joined by a terrified yelp as the other dives for cover.

Flynn waits, knowing that they won’t know where he’s positioned.

Or who he even is.

 _“The fuck is happening Morrison!?”_ he hears one of them whisper, voice edged with fear.

 _“Shut it Shane,”_ is grunted quietly back. 

Flynn still waits.

And waits.

Eventually, he hears the crackle of movement, one of the two clumsily raising themselves up to look. He doesn’t look himself though, knowing he’ll be right in their line of sight. The longer he can maintain the advantage of hiding his position, the better.

A quiet step.

A distinctive snap as a gun is primed.

“I know you’re out there!” The braver man, Morrison probably, calls brazenly. “Show yourself coward!”

Flynn smirks. He’s no coward, but he’s no fool either. He’s staying put right where he is thanks.

A loud bang as a warning shot goes off, aimed in almost completely the wrong direction.

A bird screeches, wings flapping loudly and frantically, tearing at fall-dried branches as it launches itself away in startlement. Another bang and another screech as the poor animal takes a hit.

“Shane!” Morrison bellows in annoyance. “It was just a fucking bird you moron!”

“Well I know that now!” Shane replies in indignation.

Flynn takes advantage of their distraction.

He barely aims this time, double tapping again in the direction of the man standing with one leg atop the fallen tree. Presumably this is Morrison, and the other, younger man cowering behind him is likely Shane.

Morrison grunts loudly as one of Flynn’s bullets lodges itself in his upper arm. The second shot goes slightly wide, skimming along the man’s cheek and spraying blood as he falls backwards into his accomplice. Flynn ducks back down before he can be spotted, listening to the pained groans of the pair as they tumble back behind their make-shift cover.

This time when the warning shot rings out, it passes almost directly above Flynn’s head. 

“I know where you are, you treasonous brute!” Morrison yells, his voice slightly muffled by the log he’s hiding behind. “Get up and fight like a man you Serbian bastard!”

The next bullet skims right over the top of Flynn’s own fallen log, spraying splintered wood over him as it deflects upwards and gets lost in the brush.

“I’m not from damn Serbia!” he calls back, grinning hard, knowing his mirth will be detectable in his tone. Seriously, why do these idiots think that!? His country of birth is plain for all to see on even the mostly heavily redacted version of his file.

“You Bohunk fuckers are all the same!”

Jeez, he rolls his eyes. He hasn’t heard that one for a while. He’s not Czech either, the goddamn racist prick. He must fit right in, here in the 1930s, with free range to abuse every black citizen and other peoples of colour that his eyes light upon.

“At least I’m not a brainwashed fanatical prick,” Flynn laughs mirthlessly as he rolls from the log to the adjacent tree. Back on his feet, his back pressed against the bark, he darts a quick look round and spots Morrison once more peering over his own cover. 

“Rittenhouse are going to save the world!” Morrison screams as he empties his clip in Flynn’s direction. “Cleanse our country of worthless cattle like yourself! America will be remade in our image, rising above the scum of democracy, forging history for the betterment of all!”

As soon as he hears the tell-tale click of an empty clip, Flynn turns and channels his fury into steadying his hands. Two more shots and Morrison goes sprawling to the ground, much closer than Flynn had anticipated him being. The downed maniac coughs weakly, gasping through the fluid rapidly filling his throat and his lungs.

Not sparing him another glance, Flynn twists back out of sight, hand going to his pocket to replace his own ammo. He’s got two rounds left in his current one, but-

“Sranje!” he gasps as a boot almost ploughs into his side.

Shane.

Distracted with dealing with Morrison, the smaller man has managed to sneak up on him. 

Dropping his gun reactively, Flynn grabs the sleeper’s foot with both hands and yanks. A fist comes flying straight towards his face, and he reflexively blocks it with his forearm, slamming it away even as another lands centrally in his stomach.

Flynn tenses against the impact, breath knocked out of him, but manages to throw his weight forward as he topples, grappling the man down with him.

An elbow to the jaw is retaliated against with a knee to the kidney.

They roll.

Hands are around Flynn’s throat suddenly, and he bucks upwards, locking his legs around the man’s waist. Another buck and he throws him to one side, hands tearing loose with a sharp drag of nails along his neck. 

Gasping desperately, he grasps blindly for something, _anything,_ slamming his other fist into Shane’s nose with a sharp crack.

Once, twice-

The third punch is blocked and Flynn finds himself on his back again, shoulder jammed down against a fractured tree branch. 

His free hand still scrabbles.

He kicks out, barely grazing the small but _extremely_ well trained sleeper’s knee. This Shane might not be as brazen and bold as Morrison was, but he certainly knows how to fucking use his fists.

Flynn’s head reels as he feels something smack hard against the back of his skull. Vision awash with bright flares and dark spots alike, he flails with all his might. He may be matched in skill right now, but he has the advantage of pure brute size and strength, and he’s going to damn well use it

Finally clawing his hand around a slim branch as they both tumble over each other again, clothing ripping and skin bruising, Flynn grins viciously and spits in the other man’s face.

It’s all the distraction he needs.

Stabbing like it’s a knife, he rams the wood right into Shane’s side, piercing the soft flesh beneath his ribs and sliding it upwards with a sickening squelch.

Shane screams in pure agony, his grip immediately going lax and his eyes rolling up into his skull.

Flynn twists harder and then kicks the slackening body off himself with a disgusted grimace. 

Spotting his dropped pistol a few metres away, he throws himself towards it with a groan, careful to not fully turn his back on his grievously injured opponent. Shane is still trying to drag himself up on to his knees, one hand clawing inside his jacket, no doubt going for his own handgun, but Flynn is no amateur and doesn’t take his eyes off him even as he scrabbles to get a shot off first.

The shot reverbs loudly and then silence falls.

Flynn flops onto his back, and stares up at the sky, waiting for it to stretch down and claim him.

* * *

_“Do you think he’s any good at cooking?” Rufus suddenly asks, apropos of nothing._

_They’re all gathered round the lifeboat, helping to coat the tripod legs with another coat of anti-rust sealant. It’s so acrid smelling, it’s burning Wyatt’s eyes, but he dutifully dips his shitty paintbrush back in the tin and keeps slapping the stuff on the metal._

_“No idea,” Wyatt shrugs. “But he’s military so I wouldn’t bet on it. Boiling MREs tends to be the limit of our creativity.”_

_“His idea of showing me a good time at the Chicago World Fair was to buy me a Pabst blue ribbon but no food, so I’m going to agree with Wyatt there,” Lucy chuckles despite her watering eyes and stained hands. “But he did also take me to see Harry Houdini perform, so I guess he can have at least a little credit.”_

_“Can we please not talk about the time he kidnapped Lucy and tricked us into staying at a murder-hotel like it was a fun filled family day please,” Rufus grumbles. But he’s smiling too, so Wyatt flicks some acrid paint at him with a laugh._

* * *

“Well I can see at least two dead bodies,” Rufus hears Wyatt grimace as soon as the Lifeboat’s door slides open. “We’re practically parked on top of one of them.”

“Oh lord,” Jack gasps as he peers cautiously around Wyatt’s side, voice unsteady with nerves and nausea. “That’s Master Morrison! He teaches advanced physics to the seniors!”

“Oh, he was an arrogant science teacher!” another voice rasps sardonically though a harsh laugh. “That explains so much about his attitude!”

Flynn!

If he’s being sarcastic, he must be okay. Thank the stars.

Wyatt jumps out with practiced ease after calling a greeting, and Rufus makes his own way to the hatch to also help Jack climb down. That done, he looks up and glances around the same clearing they’d left nearly six hours ago.

“Damn Bandit!” he exclaims as soon as he sees his other teammate, sat leaning against a pile of branches and wood debris. “You look like utter shit!”

“Killed some fanatics, had a panic attack, bon appetite,” Flynn coughs with a sharp grin, tugging at his torn and muddy suit jacket. “Can we go home now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably have split this chapter into two; there's certainly enough content for that. But it's also a bank holiday weekend, so you can have it all in one. As a treat.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garcia Flynn is the tallest, lankiest, grumpiest little spoon to ever spoon. Fight me.

It turns out, that while Flynn was in the past trying to chase the three sleepers down, the rest of the time team had gotten involved in a wild chase of their own.

And Lucy had recovered just enough from her fever to go haring off with the rest of them.

 _Just enough,_ Flynn discovers once Rufus has dragged him into the medbay to ice his bruises, actually means _not really enough but needs must._ Lucy looks dead on her feet as she stands in the medbay doorway and quietly watches Rufus peel his filthy jacket and shirt off of him. 

“You look like you’ve been tenderised like a piece of meat man,” Rufus winces in sympathy as he snaps a cold pack, wraps it in a tea towel, and then presses it against Flynn’s left stomach. “These haven’t even started to purple yet and you still look like road kill.”

“Ah, you should see the other guy,” Flynn drawls back, wincing when Rufus moves on to poking at the adhesive patch now covering his semi-dissolved stiches on his other side.

“I did,” Rufus snorts. “You shish kabobbed him with half a tree. And I am really very disturbed that I find that funny instead of horrifying.”

“It was a small branch,” he grouchily corrects when Lucy raises her eyebrows at him silently. “And he was trying to break my neck and strangle me simultaneously.”

“He was supposed to wait until Wyatt and I came back before he went ninja assassin on the sleepers,” Rufus says pointedly, obviously talking to Lucy but looking directly at Flynn while he speaks.

“That was never discussed, let alone agreed upon,” Flynn complains, wincing as the slightly whiny pitch aggravates his sore throat. “You just tossed JFK into the lifeboat, shoved all the weaponry at me, and then poof! I drove around aimlessly for an hour before I gave up and went back so you can’t even accuse me of impatience. If you didn’t want me to deal with them on my own, you shouldn’t have left me on my own!”

“You’re the one who insisted on being left behind,” Rufus whines right back with a grin. “Look at me! I’m a walking lethal weapon! I can kill people with just my scowl! Three sleepers? No problem! Besides it all turned out fine. Baby Jack-Jack only made it halfway across the state before Wyatt and Lucy caught up with him, you got to have fun being sneaky and deadly, and I managed to postpone adult Jack’s assassination by three whole days! Go me!”

“We should build a proper holding cell,” Flynn rasps before Rufus can go any further down the tracks of his self-blaming spiral. “In case we have to bring anyone else from the past here. Or if we manage to capture a sleeper one day.”

“Step one,” Lucy speaks up for the first time, exhaustion visible in every line of her body. “Block off the ventilation system.”

“Ah no,” Flynn grins. “Step one would be me crawling through the ventilation system to see where it leads. If boy wonder got out through them, people could potentially get in through them too.”

“Shouldn’t someone smaller do that Bandit?” Rufus teases, poking at his thigh. “Help me Obi Wan Lucy-obi! I’m stuck like a pretzel!”

“No ones doing anything until you’ve all slept at least 8 hours,” Agent Christopher announces as she sweeps past Lucy with a stern look. “Logan says you have his arms,” she directs at Flynn. “And I’ll have all the magazines back too please.”

“All in there,” Flynn grunts as Rufus slaps _yet another_ ice pack on him, this one on the scratch welts down his neck. He points at his discarded shirt, jacket, and tie, trying not to move his sore shoulder. Christopher fishes out both of his handguns, the holster, and the spare clips and checks them all with practiced efficiency while they all watch, and then nods and heads back to the door.

“It’s after midnight so I’ll be back to do a proper debrief at 0900,” she commands with a disconcertingly fond look. “Now go to bed, the lot of you.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Flynn salutes sarcastically with his good arm. “All three of us.”

* * *

Flynn really does try to go to bed after he’s had a hot drink, but all he can think of as he lies staring blankly at the ceiling, is of the endless blue that had pressed down upon him while he’d sat and waited for four and a half hours for the Lifeboat.

Not a cloud in sight.

He’d thought to start with, that the deputy from the school gates would have heard the shots and come running. But as he’d laid on his back amongst the trees and brambles, a dead body on his left and two more close by… nothing. Not so much as a peep from the Sheriff or school staff. No curious kids, no concerned adults from the adjacent private housing. 

Nothing.

No one had come to investigate. No one had come to tear him from the vicious cycle his thoughts were spiralling into. 

Eventually, he’d gotten up and staggered back closer to the landing point, flopping down against the barrier the Rittenhouse woman had been constructing. Even less branches and leaves had obscured his view of the sky there though, and ultimately, he’d ended up with his face pressed into his knees and his arms wrapped around himself. 

And now he’s not there, he’s _here_ and he’s _safe._ But the tight numbness still won’t leave him. Sleep is just straight up impossible.

His clock ticks to 3:23am. 

“Jebi ovo,” he mumbles to himself, giving in and throwing back the covers. He rolls his shoulders as he stands, wincing through the pain, and less than a minute later he’s once again sleuthing through the bunker with his hoody pulled up round his ears and his hands jammed in his pockets.

The TV is on when he slides into the main bay, some old black and white movie flickering away quietly. The subtitles are on though, and Lucy’s head is just visible over the back of the main couch. She’s slouched right down, legs and feet up on the coffee table, and her head braced against one sleeve covered fist. 

A picture of misery, if he ever saw one.

Flynn doesn’t speak, going straight for the fridge instead. He pulls his hood down as he grabs two of Mason’s shitty beers and the bottle opener, and then slowly makes his way over to her. He can’t be 100% sure, but he suspects she and Logan talked earlier. About Jessica, and how they fit in around that.

About how they can’t fit _together_ now that things have unexpectedly changed.

Flynn’s instinct is to entirely blame Logan for the situation, but as he carefully sits down next to Lucy and silently offers her one of the drinks, he realises that that wouldn’t really be fair. It’s not like Logan was expecting Rittenhouse to raise his wife from the dead, and he hadn’t brought Jessica to the bunker out of choice. He’d only done _that_ when his hand had been forced, when Jessica Logan had paid for his previous caution and _consideration_ with targeted violence.

Doesn’t change the fact that Lucy is clearly hurting though.

And that Logan is the cause of that pain.

So they don’t speak as the film plays on. Flynn wishes he knew what it was, but despite his otherwise keen interest in history, cinema and its evolution have never really held his attention. He considers them a guilty pleasure if he’s honest, but he’s always found whatever explosive action blockbuster has just been released to be far more to his taste.

He watches it anyway though, and they finish their beers in silence.

* * *

He’s hunched over with his head in Lucy’s lap and someone is trying to quietly start the coffee maker behind them. 

He has no idea when either of them fell asleep. 

Both of them still have their feet propped up on the coffee table, but Flynn has ended up on his side, legs at 90° to the rest of him. There’s a hand resting just above his ear, fingers lightly tangled in his hair, and another atop his side, curling round onto his back. When he squints sleepy upwards, Lucy has her head tipped backwards against the top of the couch’s back, her mouth slightly open and her breathing light.

The last thing Flynn remembers, they hadn’t been touching at all. The credits had just finished rolling and Lucy had been flicking through the Netflix menu wordlessly. Their empty bottles standing on the floor beneath them. 

He’s not surprised _that_ they fell asleep.

(Aside from their usual insomniac ways anyhow…)

But he _is_ at the _way_ they fell asleep. It would have made much more sense for her to tip onto him, have Lucy use _him_ as pillow, not the other way round. Sheer sized-based common sense dictates that. But.

But actually, that’s the pair of them in a nutshell isn’t it?

Utterly unconventional. 

He realises that he zoned out while chasing after memories of last night, and now Lucy is peering back down at him, one eyebrow raised and a smirk that would probably look more at home on his own face gracing her lips. 

“Good morning sleepy head,” she teases, her face flushing red as she carefully extracts her hand from his hair. 

As ever, he remains decidedly the opposite of a morning person, and all he can summon in response is a grunt and lazy smile. Slowly, he bends his knees and tries to force his arms into cooperation. Eventually he manages to prise himself upright, head hanging as he shoves his fists into his eye sockets and rubs at the sleep grit that’s built up. He hisses as he does so, realising that both his jaw and his right eye are slightly swollen and are no doubt blackening rapidly.

“I’ll get you some coffee and some more ice,” Lucy yawns at him fondly, hand sliding onto his shoulder as she stands up. She stretches with another yawn once she’s upright, arms above her head and raised on her toes, and Flynn hastily swallows and looks away, really not wanting to get caught staring at the strip of skin around her middle that gets revealed by her movement.

“Hey girl,” he hears Jiya croon affectionately as Lucy wanders away, and he surmises that she’s the one who’s been fiddling with the coffee maker and rattling quietly in the cupboards for the last five minutes. There’s a tired moan and then am oomph and a chuckle; Lucy’s probably just found herself wrapped in a hug.

Flynn smiles to himself and flops back down, his head mashed into the warm spot where Lucy was just sitting.

* * *

He _had_ showered last night after Rufus had finished prodding him in the medbay, but he’d done so in a daze. Systematically washing the dirt and drying blood off of himself while staring into the middle distance. He hadn’t looked around, nor thought about the implications of the massive pile of building materials that has still been sat in the middle of the bathroom. 

So after breakfast when Logan grumpily declares that he’s going to go start tearing the bathroom tiles up and pulling down the mirrors, Flynn is momentarily confused (Don’t they kind of need those? The bathroom is enough of a state as it is…).

“You’re not getting out of debrief!” Christopher calls after him with a pinched brow. But she doesn’t chase after him or order him back, so Flynn bites his tongue too. He knows Jessica is still in a bad way and is even more of a walking bruise than he himself is right now, so he can understand Logan’s bad mood, if not necessarily condone how he’s taking it out on everyone else. 

“Guess that means we’re first through the wringer Bandit,” Rufus sighs, flicking his last piece of scrambled egg around his plate. “Yay.”

“Surely you’re used to this by now,” he smirks back with a raised eyebrow, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. “This colossal fuckup of a mission was hardly your first rodeo.”

“Experience does not birth enjoyment,” Rufus snips back with his own smirk. “Otherwise I would like your sense of humour much more.”

“And yet you’re first up for questioning anyway,” Christopher tells him with a tight smile, trying to cut off the banter.

It doesn’t really work.

“This is your fault,” Rufus points mock-sternly at Flynn as he stands up and takes his plate to the stack beside the sink. Flynn holds his hands up in surrender even as he grins back. Rufus mimes shooting him, Star Wars style pew-pew noises and all.

Gods, the people in this bunker are weird. He kinda like it, even if he doesn’t deserve their acceptance of him. 

“I’ll come find you in twenty minutes Mr Flynn,” Agent Christopher rolls her eyes, clearly knowing when she’s fighting a losing battle. “You don’t have to try and interact with him, but if you and Lucy could keep an eye on Logan in the meantime, it’d be appreciated.”

“And I’m going to go check on Jessica again, take her something to eat,” Jiya adds on as the everyone else stands and begins to disperse. “Onwards noble team, to great victories!”

* * *

_“Knock out gas?” Wyatt questions with a surprised look._

_“Knock out gas,” Christopher nods back._

_“Fire in the hole!” Rufus acts out, pretending that a smoke canister is erupting above him with his hands and making appropriate noises. “Critical hit, it’s super effective! The Warden faints!”_

_“Nerd,” Jiya snorts fondly._

* * *

An hour later, and Flynn finds himself in just his tank top watching Logan violently shovelling broken and smashed tiles into buckets. Rufus, mother hen that he apparently is, had forbidden him from doing anything too physical until the swelling around his shoulder joint has gone down some more, but he can still mix grout with his good arm and slide tile spacers into gaps where needed.

“An oh yeah, we need to resort sleeping arrangements again,” Logan is ranting as he scrapes the last of the shattered ex-sink tiles up and tosses them in with the others. “We’ve only got six beds and seven of us dammit. And I just finished sorting out everyone with decent mattresses!”

“We still have an empty room on this level,” Flynn points out mildly as he hands over the sweeping brush. Logan takes to attacking the old grout dust with violent gusto. 

“But as you so helpfully pointed out last night, we really need a holding cell,” Logan grumbles back. “JFK getting out was an accident, but it can’t happen again. Especially if the next person we have to drag back is a Rittenhouse agent.”

“We could always just chain them up in here?” he jests, now handing over a crowbar. With surprising caution, Logan jams in behind the bottom of the far end mirror and begins levering it outwards.

“Pretty sure that would be against the Geneva convention.”

“Yeah but if it’s Rittenhouse do we really care?”

Logan pauses, a slight smile finally lightening his scowl.

“Well you and I apparently don’t, but Lucy would,” he chuckles darkly eventually.

“Ah well,” Flynn shrugs. “I guess we’re building that holding cell after all then.”

“And we’re back at square one with the sleeping situation.”

“Well you and Jessica could take my bunk?” Flynn hesitates. “My bed’s wide enough now to serve as double.”

“It’s not the beds that are the problem,” Logan grunts as the mirror pops free. Held by the chain at the top, it doesn’t drop, but it does swing about violently and the other man has to step back to avoid being clobbered in the face by it. “I can easily extend another couple of them and there’s another one of those weird mini double mattresses spare-”

“They’re called four footers,” Flynn injects. “They’re um. Pretty common over the pond.”

“Well whatever,” Logan carries on as he targets the next mirror. “It’s not the beds, it’s the rooms to put them in. If I double up with Jessica, that means Rufus has to go elsewhere. I’m not gonna expect him to sleep in the same room as a married couple. The logical solution is then to let him move in with Jiya.”

“But that puts Lucy out,” Flynn concludes. 

“Exactly. Even if we did decide to forgo the holding cell in favour of an extra bedroom, we can’t put Lucy in the smallest room in the bunker. Not only is it windowless, but it’s on the other branch of corridor isolated from the rest of us. It’d be a claustrophobic nightmare and she’d never get any sleep. It’s a moot-point anyway; we need that holding cell.”

“She could have my room and I can sleep in the holding cell with the door open?” Flynn suggests as passes over the step ladders and hand drill so Logan can start unscrewing the mirror chains. “We can rethink if we have a “guest” over at any point.”

“No.” Logan shakes his head immediately. “No offence buddy, and no offence to Lucy either, but you two are the _last_ people in the bunker who should be isolated from everyone else, even if it’s just for sleeping. You’ve both spent far too much time in solitary imprisonment. That’s like asking to have your PTSD triggered on a daily basis.”

And well that’s weird. Having people who’re not Lorena actively caring about his mental health. Flynn’s not really sure what to do with that. 

“Lucy err… Lucy was in solitary?” he asks cautiously instead of contemplating that conundrum some more. He knew _something_ had happened while she was in her mother’s clutches – he’d gathered that much from their conversation after their short argument while in Salem – but he didn’t know any details. Just that she was surprised that she didn’t have agoraphobia too.

And Flynn obviously wasn’t going to ask her directly. Not when it was obviously such a sore point.

“She doesn’t talk about it much,” Logan sighs, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist. “But they had her for almost five months. They took her straight after you were arrested, and Rufus and I had only just gotten her back five days previous when she and Agent Christopher went to ask you about 1955 South Carolina.”

“Well no wonder she looked like death warmed over,” Flynn winces, remembering all his harsh words and barbs with a flush of hot shame and regret. Stars, if he’d realised just how truly decent people this oddball bunch were sooner…

But he was trapped in a cesspool of rage and perceived betrayal. Even before spending six months with nothing to do but _think,_ he’d been too utterly consumed with his blinding desire for vengeance and revenge to see more than the obstacle he thought they completely embodied. He had started to wake up and actually pay attention towards the end there, but then Christopher had followed Lucy to their meet up and arrested him. And well. Best he forgets his words and actions from immediately after that. 

“She glanced over the details,” Logan mumbles desolately, “but I gather there was an empty bedroom with the window bricked up. Twin sized mattress thrown in the corner, en-suite bathroom with a broken shower. Door out always locked. Didn’t see people even when they brought her food. Just shoved a plate through a cat flap.”

 _Isus Krist…_ Suddenly Flynn’s own imprisonment sounds like a cake walk…

“How- How long?” he asks through his suddenly constricted throat, his fists clenched and nails biting into his palms. 

Logan turns suddenly, shooting him a concerned look.

“Hey, its alright man,” he soothes, climbing down off the ladder to place a hand on his shoulder. “We did some math based on the number of meals she got, and she was only in there for a couple of weeks.”

“But she went from that straight into attempted brainwashing and indoctrination, didn’t she?” Flynn bites out, turning his head away. 

“Didn’t work though did it,” Logan grins, pride obvious in his voice. “Five months they had her, and she tricked them all into thinking they’d converted her. And then the first thing she did when they let her out was come within metres of managing to blow the Mothership up. Lucy Preston? Total badass, and don’t you go forgetting that.”

“Couldn’t if I wanted to,” Flynn huffs, a smile coming back to his own lips. “First time I met her I was hours away from putting a bullet in my own mouth, busy getting drunk enough to go through with it. And she- she just appeared next to me at the bar. Gave me her personal journal, called me a hero, kissed me on my forehead, said I was loved and wanted. Tried to pay off my tab too, except the barkeep had insisted that I pay up front every bottle.”

“Sounds like Lucy,” Logan chuckles. “She was always trying to pay for us when the three of us, us and Rufus, went out drinking after Mason Industries missions. Come on, time for a coffee break. You can check on Lucy, and I’ll see if Jess is finally feeling up to taking a tour of our humble shithole.”

“You know, you still haven’t introduced me to your wife,” Flynn needles jokingly as they drop all their tools and head for the door. “Scared I’ll win her over and run off with her?”

“Well yeah, you’re like a nine and I’m maybe a seven with the right Instagram filter,” Logan jokes back, the bathroom and their sombre moods left behind them. “She sees you, and those divorce papers are coming right back at me man.”

* * *

_“If we can’t get him proper counselling, should we, I don’t know…? Try and talk to him ourselves?”_

_“Only within the limits of what you’re each comfortable with Lucy,” Denise replies softly. “You should never forget than even trained and experienced therapists and psychiatrists are legally required to have their own counselling sessions; they don’t deal with what their patients tell them about alone. Your own well-being should always come first in long term situations like these, and of all of you, only Wyatt has had some mental health crisis training. And even that was only basic.”_

_“Yeah, and mostly it was just “if someone is in crisis, don’t leave them alone and get them to a professional”. Really, super basic.”_

_“And do you think he will be?” Lucy asks. “In crisis?”_

_“We’ll just have to wait and see but stabbing oneself with a sharpened spoon handle is generally not considered a good sign.”_

* * *

“Jiya! Connor, Jiya!” Rufus whoops, ignoring the alarmed looks that Wyatt and Flynn shoot him from by the coffee maker. They both look sweaty and emotional drained as well as dusty, but Rufus couldn’t give a damn right now. _He’s worked it out!_

“What?” Connor moans, cradling a cold bottle of something against his brow. Hungover. _Again._

“I know how to do it!” Rufus grins excitedly. “The mass integration problem! I know how to fix it!”

“You can get the fourth seat in!?” Connor suddenly perks up, headache seemingly instantly forgotten.

“Better than that, I can get the fourth seat in _and_ widen the single entity tolerance range. Which means in the future we might be able to cram a fifth person in. Jiya’s going to have to rewrite like, almost all of the gravity and gyrophysics code classes from pretty much scratch once I’ve done the math, but…”

“So what you’re saying is that in maybe…. Ten days? Twelve?”

“Eleven,” Rufus grins. “I do like me a mean average.”

“Yes well, in eleven days the Lifeboat’s capacity will increase by an entire 33%.”

“Oh really?” Flynn groans melodramatically from across the room. “You guys do remember that I don’t actually like going outside anymore right?”

“Well suck it up kiddo,” Rufus grins, “because you’re stuck with us now for good!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, reading everyone's comments: yaaassss, I crave dis mineral


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because one canon queer will never be enough ;)

Flynn knows that he has a black eye. That it’s slightly puffy and swollen. He knows that there’s a matching mark on his jaw, that there’s handprints around his neck surrounding raised welts.

He knows that the discolouration extends down one side of his chest and spreads across his abdomen. That it curls over one shoulder in patchy blobs and encases scars both old and new down his back. And that his knees are as scrapped and bruised as his shins are.

He knows he’s in quite a state right now, and that he looks increasingly worse as the red deepens into dark purples and putrid greens.

But from the second he walks into the kitchen and finds Jessica Logan bundled up in a blanket and sat at one of the tables with a bowl of soup… From that moment he also knows that he actually got off pretty lightly. And that he should be extra grateful that he got to stab and shoot his attacker in revenge.

“I’m um. I’m Flynn,” he introduces himself with an awkward smile and hand wave as he rummages amongst the cereal tubs for the cocoa pops. Jesus, she really is black and blue. 

“Jess Logan,” the blonde woman rasps back, her voice weak despite the welcoming smile she’s wearing. “Wyatt said you’re the team’s other soldier? And back up historian?”

“Well technically I’m a government analyst turned time terrorist,” he shrugs with a self-depreciating tone. “But yes, I served in various militaries until the late-noughties.”

“Wow you really don’t pull your punches do you,” she chuckles quietly as he turns to search in the top cupboards for his favourite bowl. “Came straight out with the “I’m a terrorist line” there didn’t you.”

“Just didn’t want you to be operating under false pretences,” he mutters as he finally finds the wide blue and white dish. Setting it down on the countertop, he moves over to the fridge for milk and sighs when he discovers there’s barely a pint left. Enough for him right now, but tomorrow’s breakfast is a no go unless Christopher brings groceries with her in the morning.

“Wyatt also told me not to listen to any of your self-blaming nonsense and to judge you based on your current actions,” Jess drawls slightly stronger. “Something about a guilt complex the size of an adult Canadian moose?”

“Wyatt should keep his musings to himself,” Flynn grumbles as he slides his bowl on to the table opposite her. He’s trying to not be bitter that Logan has apparently been gossiping about him behind his back, but well. He’s trying and failing. 

“I _did_ tell him that him saying that was like the kettle calling the pot black, but he always has been exceptionally good at ignoring his own problems in favour of dealing with everyone else’s. There’s a reason I was at my wits end with him and in the middle of serving him divorce papers when he- Well, when he came back changed.”

“I’m sure you tried your best before resorting to that.”

“Tried to drag him to couple’s counselling a few times,” she mumbles slightly sardonically. “But even when I actually managed to get him into the room with the councillor, he acted like it was all some big unnecessary waste of time. He’d ignore everything said and then jump off onto the first mission he was offered.”

“Easier to fight a war than go to therapy,” Flynn admits between mouthfuls. “Lorena had to give me an ultimatum and then drag me to the first few appointment by my ear to get me to go. People like Logan and I? We need patient persistence to break down the stubborn independence before we learn to ask for help.”

There’s a long silence, punctuated only by spoons clacking against bowls as Jessica seemingly absorbs this. 

“He’s just… so different,” Jess eventually croaks, staring a hole into the tabletop. “The burning resentment that he carried with him everywhere, it’s just… _gone._ Before- before it was like he was 70% apathy and 20% quietly simmering rage. And that last 10% was always reserved for tears and begging whenever I tried to draw the line in the sand. And now- and now... He looks the same, but it’s like I don’t know him at all.”

“That’s because, on the surface he _is_ a different man to the one you knew,” Flynn says quietly when she trails off. “But the building blocks? They’re all the same. He’s still the person that you grew up with, you shared most of the same experiences with until that night in 2010. The core of the man you married is still there, he just… developed differently in the last seven years.”

“But that just means,” Jessica breathes, almost silent. “That means that it was me that dragged him down and turned him bitter.”

Flynn pauses again, aware that his head has tilted to one side.

“Quite the contrary,” he says eventually. “It was _losing_ you that made him realise how good he had it, and _that’s_ what drove him to become who he is now. The man who sees a broken terrorist and decides, decides maybe there’s some good in there to drag out into the light, maybe he deserves that chance. You were 100% the driving force behind all those changes. He was always going to go one of two ways. It’s just now, with your death… now he knows not to squander chances.”

Flynn stands then. Puts his still half full bowl by the sink.

“Jessica?” he adds as he starts to head back to Logan and the bathroom construction, pausing by the corridor entrance. “Wyatt told you to ignore any self-blame I spouted. Do yourself a favour and don’t let your own misplaced guilt drive you to squander your own chances.”

She looks at him and then nods once.

Flynn nods back and then turns the corner.

Maybe one day he’ll be able to take his own advice.

* * *

“Sure, just paint the entire room white,” Rufus huffs, everyone but Mason and Jessica standing round six open paint tins. “That’s not going to end in messy disaster at all.”

“I can’t do the top rows of new wall tiles until the breeze blocks have been coated and sealed,” Logan states calmly. “And the sooner we get it done, the sooner it’ll be dry. And the sooner it finishes drying, the sooner you’ll be able to use the showers again.” 

“You know I could be doing math for the Lifeboat right now?”

“Connor is proof-reading your first round of base calculations and doing all my code pull requests babe,” Jiya sighs as she jabs a dry paintbrush at her other half. “You can’t do anymore until he’s finished and you know it.”

“Come on fly-boy, surely you’re not afraid of a little paint?” Flynn goads good naturedly. 

“You know the big clear stain on the floor behind the Lifeboat?” Rufus asks him as everyone grabs a tin and heads for a section of wall. “Well that’s the result of the last team painting project. Wyatt thought it would be funny to flick some metal sealant at me and then it all got out of hand and Lucy tipped most of a tin over my head. I smelt of zinc galvaniser for _days.”_

“Oh well no wonder you’re three cards short of a full deck,” Flynn grins, slapping his loaded paint roller on the wall above the sinks. “Metal fume fever has addled your brains!”

 _“I’m_ three cards short of a full deck!?” Rufus scoffs playfully. “Have you looked in a mirror recently!?”

“Not since Waytt took them all down this morning,” Flynn shrugs truthfully. “But then he called me a nine, so I don’t need mirrors to reinforce my vanity anymore.”

“Nine out of ten crazy maybe.”

“Aw baby,” Flynn croons, climbing up the step ladder to reach the top of the wall while Rufus works under him. “It’s okay, I still love you even though you’re not as pretty as me.”

“Hands off my man bandit,” Jiya laughs as she passes behind them, somehow already having finished the strips of wall either side of the door (How!?). “Find your own hottie to sweet talk.”

“Aw, but the only other single male in the bunker is Connor and something tells me he’s not interested.”

“Yeah he’s a no go,” Jiya confirms, joining Logan on working on the half wall running parallel to the showers. “Totally aromantic and therefore not inclined to play around with friends and colleagues. Says there’s too much risk of attachment on their side.”

“Aromantic? What’s that?” Logan suddenly asks, frowning intently. Flynn’s not surprised he doesn’t know; the guy seems to be _a lot_ more open minded than any other white Texan military boy that he’s ever met, but that’s a pretty low bar to clear. Flynn hadn’t known either, until he’d met Lorena and started making a concerted effort to learn about more than just his own preferences – she’d been very involved in advocacy, having lost her eldest brother to the tail end of the AIDS crisis peak.

“He doesn’t experience romantic attraction,” Lucy pipes up. Flynn glances across at her and sees that’s she’s got the one can of metal paint and is delicately coating the hot water pipes that run out of the boiler room wall. “The equality and diversity department at Stanford we’re really big on sexuality awareness campaigns,” she explains when she realises everyone is looking at her. “Plus Amy was super into all that sort of stuff. Did a lot of her podcasts on it, and always wanted me to go to Pride with her every year. Don’t think mom really approved, but she knew better than to say anything; tenured professor or not, voicing that kind of prejudice would have landed her in hot water.”

Her voice trails off towards the end, and there’s an awkward silence as they all mull over the probable reason _why_ Carol Preston wasn’t supportive; freedom of self-expression doesn’t exactly match with the rest of Rittenhouse’s ideals.

“What about you and Jessica?” Flynn asks Logan in an attempt to re-lighten the mood. “Room for a six-foot southern Slav in your sheets? Devil’s threesome?”

“Hang on, I thought you were Baltic?” Rufus blurts, even as Logan’s face goes through a complicated set of gobsmacked and disturbed emotions. 

“Rufus baby, your geography is terrible,” Jiya laughs at him. 

“Wait, are you actually bisexual!?” Logan blurts even more dramatically than Rufus just did. “I thought you were just fooling around! Teasing Rufus!”

Flynn just taps the side of his nose with a grin and goes back to painting, while everyone else snickers at Logan’s discombobulated expression. 

“Huh,” Logan eventually shrugs with a considering look. “You learn something new every day.”

* * *

_“Can we do anything about his personal possessions?” Lucy asks Denise quietly while they help Wyatt carry some boxes of ancient paperwork towards the basement. “I know there’s no getting his version of my journal back, but they took his wedding ring off him. And the only photo of his daughter that he had.”_

_“They’re both in DC along with everything else he had on him,” Denise shakes her head. “Not even I have clearance to access that storage unit. But maybe I can get a copy of the photo for him. It’ll take a while because the CIA and NSA absolutely cannot find out, but I’ll see what I can sort.”_

* * *

“Flynn,” Logan calls to him after they’ve all left the paint to dry with satisfied smiles. “You got a moment?”

“It’s alright, I got this,” Lucy tells him when he looks over to her, pulling his chopping board and onions away from him. “I missed my turn to cook anyway while I was busy being feverishly delirious.”

“You sure? I haven’t taken my turn cooking at all yet. I haven’t even been added to the rota.”

“Really, I got it. It’s only pasta bolognaise. Even _I_ can prep this one without burning anything.”

“I’ll be back to help in ten then,” he nods, feeling guilty despite her assurances. He knows from long study of her journal that she’s really not a fan of cooking and would rather avoid it where possible. But she seems positive that she can handle it, and Rufus and Agent Christopher are sat on the couches nearby if she does need any assistance.

So he quickly rinses off his hands in the kitchen sink and then wanders out into the corridors to find Logan.

“Hey man,” Logan greets awkwardly, one hand nervously scratching at the back of his neck when Flynn finds him hovering by the basement ladder. “I just… wanted to make sure I didn’t overstep earlier. Before. In the bathroom. When I practically yelled that I’m a dumb country hick that was raised surrounded by homophobes.”

Flynn feels a rush of air slide out his nose in amusement. That _is_ more or less what happened. 

“I mean, it doesn’t bother me,” Logan rambles on sheepishly, apparently content to string his own verbal noose. “I already had my freak out when Bash joined Delta back in 2011. He’s um. Trans? Transgender? I swear though, he was only 23 back then and already one of the scariest snipers I’ve ever met. And god help anyone who thought they could flatten him on the mats just because he was only five foot two. I mean, I know you’re not supposed to just out people like that, but he walks around with that blue and pink flag everywhere anyway, and makes so many self-targeting gay jokes that some creep tried to report him for harassment once. But like, I was still in that don’t ask don’t tell mind set and he was there practically screaming _I’m queer_ from the rooftops on an hourly basis, and I freaked and said some shit I shouldn’t have and then he verbally kicked the shit out of me.”

“Now that I would have paid to see,” Flynn snorts, crossing his arms and leaning back on the rusty wall; his clothes are filthy and paint splattered anyway, so it’s not like it matters.

“Yeah, It was… humiliating, but I’m glad it happened,” Logan winces with another awkward gesture. “Once I crawled back and apologised properly, he sat me down and taught me all the basics. Gender, the most common sexualities, what happened at Stonewall. Loads of stuff about toxic masculinity too. God, I miss that midget. Oh um, midget is his actual nickname before you get all concerned about that. We all have them in Delta. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry if I offended you with my ignorance back there.”

“I have one question for you, and then I’ll forgive and forget,” Flynn grins evilly. 

“Oh god, now I’m in for it,” Logan sighs with an eye roll. “Fine, hit me with it.”

“What’s your Delta nickname?”

“Aw come on man,” Logan groans in obvious mortification.

* * *

“I was walking with my momma one day, when she told me what people say!” Flynn loudly sings completely off key, his notes flatter than a roadside squirrel as they walk back. He never has been able to carry a tune, but right now he really doesn’t care.

Logan’s cheeks flame even harder red when Jess takes one look at the pair as they enter the main bay, and apparently gets the reference immediately. She certainly breaks down into snickering laughter anyway, and it’s Logan she’s staring at, not him. 

“If you tell _anyone_ Flynn,” Logan growls. “I’ll-!”

“Rufus!” Flynn calls cheerily as he practically skips back to Lucy at the stove. “Logan’s army nickname is lollipop!”

“And now I’m going to murder you in your sleep,” Logan moans as Rufus squeals in delight.

* * *

Rufus is laid sideways across the couch with a tablet, furiously scribbling away with a stylus and an intent expression. Connor is slouched in one of the other seats with a tumbler of scotch humming to himself, and opposite him, Agent Christopher is grumbling at a stack of paperwork. 

In other words, Flynn’s plan to claim the TV and watch something mindless has been thoroughly foiled. 

He doesn’t want to go flake out on his bed and read though, which would normally be his preference, as they’re all still waiting for Logan to give them the all clear to shower and wash the paint off themselves. He’s got semi-decent sheets now, and he’s loathe to get white emulsion on them accidentally. 

Although, he reconsiders, he doesn’t have to be in his room to read. For whatever insane reason, the other denizens of the bunker don’t seem to mind his presence at all, so there’s nothing stopping him from just reading _in here._

Mind made up, he goes to find Lucy and ask if he can raid her ever growing collection of books again.

* * *

“Um, sorry to interrupt,” he apologies when he peers round her open door and find her, Logan, and Jessica all staring intently at one another.

“No, no it’s fine come in,” Lucy waves with a tired look. “We’re only discussing sleeping arrangements.”

“She’s trying to surrender her room to us even though she’s got nowhere to go herself,” Logan grunts with an exasperated look. 

“It makes sense!” Lucy protests. “You and Jessica in here, Rufus and Jiya in the other proper bunk room. I’ll be fine on the couch, I slept on it on last night with no problems!”

“We passed out from exhaustion on the couch rather than actively chose to sleep on it” Flynn contributes, immediately regretting it when Lucy shoots him a look of pure malice. “I’m just saying!” he hastily tacks on the end.

“Well I’m actively choosing it now!” she insists.

“But you shouldn’t have to!” Logan retorts.

“I’m still doing it!”

“Okay look,” Logan sighs, pinching his brow. “This is a one-night solution only and we’re sorting it properly first thing tomorrow okay, but here’s what I propose. Jess and I will crash in Flynn’s room, Jiya and Rufus can have the other bunk room, and you and Flynn can have the two beds in here. Flynn’s spent as much time sleeping on top of Jiya’s covers as he has under his own anyway, and Rufus and Jiya are used to sleeping separately.”

“So are we honey,” Jessica points out dryly. “I hadn’t even seen you for three months until last week.”

“Well I suppose the nerdlets can have Flynn’s bed and we can stay in the twin room,” Logan mutters with obvious disappointment. 

“I’m teasing babe,” she chuckles at her husband. “I know you’ve gone six years without, and not by choice.”

“You okay with that?” Lucy enquires, smiling nervously at Flynn. “I really don’t mind taking the couch if you want your space.”

“I woke up this morning with my head in your lap,” Flynn shrugs. “Separate beds is actually an increase in space if you ask me.”

“You slid sideways without noticing and then when I tried to tell you to go to bed, you just mumbled softly at me!” Lucy blushes. “And then you were out cold and I didn’t have the heart to try waking you again. You snuffle like Amy used to! I couldn’t do it!”

“Awww, she thinks I’m cute,” he deadpans at Logan, aware that he’s somewhat twisting the knife. Just because he fully sympathises with the uncomfortable position the man’s found himself in with Jessica returning, doesn’t mean he’s above jabbing at it for Lucy’s benefit. Unprecedented or not, the whole mess is still hurting her.

“Yes well um,” Logan coughs. “I’ll um. Go tell the others the plans. And then um. Check to see if the paint is dry enough to take water splashes and steam.”

Except he then just stands there, looking uncomfortable.

Jessica rolls her eyes, grabs his arm, and tugs him out with a “Can you believe this dork?” expression aimed at Lucy.

“Oh my god, and they were roommates!” Flynn grins gleefully, gesturing between himself and Lucy once the Logans have disappeared. 

“With every day that passes, I am less and less surprised that you and Rufus get along like a house on fire,” she sighs back at him. “You’re both hideous little trolls that know far too much pop culture.”

“I am six-four and look nothing like a troll,” he complains, trying not to smirk.

“You know exactly the kind of troll I’m referring to Garcia Flynn,” she stares him down unimpressed. “Not only was I a university professor, I was the _friendly and approachable_ university professor. Trust me when I say I have seen and heard it all before.”

“So what you’re saying is, you’d be up for a some teacher-student roleplay? Would it even count as roleplay if you actually _are_ a teacher?”

“Regrets,” she points at him with her eyes narrowed. “I am filled with them.”

* * *

_“If you can get the canisters to the ventilation intake without anyone noticing, I can control what parts of the prison it flows to from here,” Connor nods. “I’ve been in their systems for three days now and they haven’t noticed a single thing.”_

_“That’s because you have Jiya helping you at every turn,” Rufus points out dryly._

_“Okay fine,_ we’ve _been in their systems for days now undetected,” Connor rolls his eyes. “The point is, we can choose exactly who to gas into oblivion and who not to. And when to do it.”_

* * *

“Babe I have a problem,” Rufus groans as they finish shoving the two beds together, grateful to have at least one night together in a room of their own. “A Flynnster shaped problem.”

“A problem?” Jiya frowns, tossing her own pillow to the head of one bunk. “I thought you two were getting along rather swimmingly considering your pasts?”

“That _is_ the problem,” he frowns as he starts shucking his clothes. “He’s the guy who got me shot and actually did shoot Wyatt. The man who tried to strand us in the 1700s surrounded by angry Frenchmen, who kidnapped Lucy and assassinated Abraham Lincoln and tried to murder a _ten year old._ And yet…”

“You like him,” Jiya finishes softly.

“He’s incredibly funny and weirdly soft when he’s not hell bent on reigning down destruction with no regard for collateral. It’s like those six months in solitary gave his personality a hard reset.”

“I think,” Jiya says cautiously as she settles herself under her covers. “I think that you shouldn’t forget everything that he did, but that you should try looking at his actions from the viewpoint of someone who lost _everything_ and was being driven entirely by desolation and desperation. I think he was utterly convinced that it was his either morals or the world on the line and chose to throw himself into the fire. It’s not that he didn’t have morals then, it’s just that… he hated every second of it, but he thought there were more important things than saving his self-respect.”

“Captain Jack and the 456,” Rufus considers. “Except Flynn lost his kid as well as his partner and didn’t really induce the confrontation. Plus, we don’t have a twinky timelord somewhere out there in the universe as a backup Dues ex Machina, so Flynn tossed himself into the big bad abyss in lieu.”

“Hmmm, enough serious talk. How about you be _my_ Dues ex Machina,” Jiya suggests coyly, rolling over to rest her chin on his chest.

“You know as well as I do that I look _very dashing_ in a bowtie,” he grins back salaciously, hands already sliding downwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Flynn and Rufus would stop taking over every single chapter with their nonsense, that would be great.


	12. Chapter 12

“Lucy you can shut it you want, it’s okay,” Flynn tells her quietly, sitting on the edge of Jiya’s bed in his sleep pants and a clean tee, unzipped hoody thrown over the top to keep the chill off. 

“But you never sleep with the door shut,” she’s quick to point out. She’s also dressed in comfortable clothes; baggy sweatpants and a scoop neck vest, hair in a messy bun and her make-up wiped clean away. “Really, I don’t mind leaving it open.”

“It’s not having it open or shut,” Flynn tries to explain. “It’s the fact that I now have a choice in the matter. The cell door was always shut no matter what I wanted, even when I lost it a couple times and begged them to open it for just five minutes. The wardens didn’t even yell at me to shut up, just ignored me completely.”

He bites his tongue and stares at the floor quickly, annoyed with himself for letting that last bit slip. He’s certain Lucy won’t use the revealed weakness against him and won’t tell anyone else that he had a breakdown or five while in solitary, but he’s still uncomfortable with having said the words out loud.

“Okay,” she says softly. “So what would you like to choose? Open or shut? Not what you think I want, what _you_ want.”

He glances back up at her and feels some of the tension in shoulder’s slip when he finds her expression completely free of judgement and pity. No, she’s just patiently waiting for him to decide, as though the question really doesn’t bear any more weight than choosing between sprinkles or syrup on his ice-cream. 

“Open please,” he smiles weakly, looking away quickly when Lucy’s eyes somehow soften even more, as if he’s somehow worthy of her consideration.

She steps away from the door without further comment and sits down next to him, their shoulders touching. Then she hands him a book, grabs one herself, and leans back against the wall, tugging him with her.

* * *

He honestly can’t believe he’s complaining about this, but this bunk room is too big. And it _has windows._

Even though it’s full dark outside and they’re caked in years of green grime that’s only been wiped off on one side, he’s still uneasily aware that they’re there. That they’re basically a portal to the wide openness of _outside_. Additional emphasis on _openness._

Mostly he’s annoyed that his brain has decided that tonight of all nights is the time to be hyperconscious of all these points. It’s not like he hasn’t slept in here before, in daylight no less, when he could see the hillside with its trees and sweeping grass through the triple layer of glass. Hell, he even sat hunched in that grey armchair (that he’s now stolen for his own room) for hours without any issues a few days ago, nursing Lucy through the night.

But now? It’s like the room has suddenly become this giant cavern and he’s trapped in it.

Inexplicably given its cell-like dimensions, he misses his own tiny box room and its closed in feeling.

He shifts on the too-short bed, turning his upper body and head so that he can see the open door and the dimly lit walls of the hallway beyond. When he opens his eyes a little wider, the edge of one of those Strategic Missile Squadron logos that Logan keeps threatening to paint over comes into focus, an ancient gas mask hung next to it that for some reason, no-one has taken down. There’s lots of stuff like that down here, a random smorgasbord of dilapidated 50s memorabilia surrounding the team’s more modern tech and amenities. 

Flynn knows that Logan has a plan to slowly work on updating it all; a plan approved and funded by Agent Christopher and Homeland, seeing as the agency apparently plan on continuing to use the bunker as a safe house long after the team and the Lifeboat are gone. But in the meantime, it’s rather like living in a time capsule. Extra disconcerting when you’re regularly jumping to and from the _actual_ past. 

“Hey, you don’t have to pretend to be asleep on my account,” Lucy unexpectedly mumbles into the quiet, her voice thick with sleep. “If you want to get up and go for a wander, that’s okay.”

“I was trying to not wake you,” he mutters back lowly. “I’ll stop shuffling so much.”

“You didn’t,” she’s quick to reply. “But I can hear you thinking loudly now that I _am_ awake.”

“Sorry.”

“S’okay. Just an observation, not an accusation. Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

But well, he can already feel the words bubbling up. The dampness clinging to the edge of his eyelashes.

“Iris,” he breathes a minute later, hearing the way the name whispers through the air like dissipating smoke. “We were raising her bilingual. English and Croatian. She had a clean accent in both, not like me. I miss listening to her babbling away excitedly in my native tongue and then just as swiftly switching to American to beg her mom for more cake. She was so clever and _happy.”_

“Did Lorena know the language too?” Lucy asks when he pauses and takes an audibly deep, shuddering breath.

“Conversationally,” He hiccups after a hard swallow. “She- she learnt for me, for us. So she could understand Iris and I when- when.”

“Hey, it’s alright, let it out,” Lucy murmurs as she slides out of her bed and pads over to him, crouching down near his head. “You’re allowed to grieve them.”

“No I’m not,” he croaks brokenly, feeling tears sliding down his cheeks and soaking the pillow beneath him. “It’s my fault they’re gone. I wasn’t fast enough! I didn’t even get out of bed until it was too late!”

Lucy makes another soft noise, and Flynn realises she’s gently lifted his head and scooted onto the bed. Arms wrap around him as he curls around her.

And he weeps.

* * *

He’s stiff as an old board, muscles tight and knot ridden. 

He groans.

The smell of coffee fills his nose as he realises he can hear people moving around beyond the room. Huh, it must be morning already. As is apparently becoming his norm, he doesn’t remember falling asleep.

His face feels tacky when he scrubs a hand down over it, and his mouth is sticky when he runs his tongue along his teeth. Shoulder and knees protesting, he practically falls his way out of bed and literally limps his way to the bathroom. 

There are still no replacement mirrors up and two of the three toilets have _DO NOT USE!!!_ notes taped to their lids, but the fresh coat of paint has done wonders for the state of the room. The fittings and appliances themselves still look hilariously antique, but without the cracked brown wall tiles, once-white stained floor, and peeling forest green walls, the place at least now looks clean and serviceable. There’s still zero privacy with all the mouldering stall walls torn down and the door lock still jammed open, but it’s a massive improvement from even just a week ago.

Teeth cleaned and cool water splashed on his face, he debates combing his hair but decides its too much effort and simply pulls his hood up instead. Lorena taught him spoon theory once, and he’s definitely not wasting one of his limited supply on something so trivial. 

“No, he needs his own room back,” he hears echo down the corridor as soon as he lets the bathroom door creak shut behind him. Lucy, somewhere in the vicinity of the main bay. “He had a rough night last night. No don’t look at me like that Wyatt, I’m not telling you about it. Flynn can do that when and _if_ he decides to of his own volition.”

Flynn pauses, his throat tight. He only vaguely recalls sobbing his heart out last night, but he can feel the weary aftermath all the way through to his bones. And he’s too numb and exhausted right now to summon the energy to be embarrassed about having yet another meltdown, but he still wants to know what they’re saying about him before they realise he can hear him. 

“Is he okay at least?” Logan asks quietly, obviously trying to keep his voice down.

“He’s still sleeping. Once he passed out, he was basically dead to the world. Didn’t even stir when I got up, or when Rufus bellowed good morning at me through the open door and I had to hastily shush him.”

“How long should we leave him before rousing him for food?”

“No need, I’m up” he grunts himself, sliding round the corner otherwise silently. Lucy starts in surprise, but Logan merely smiles sunnily at him.

“For goodness sake, you giant lummox” Lucy swats at him with the back of her hand. “Do you have any mode other than stealth!?”

“I know I’m not a native speaker,” Flynn raises one eyebrow.” But I’m pretty sure that lummoxes are the direct opposite of stealthy.”

“And yet you manage to be both anyway,” Logan grins. “Right, breakfast. Feeding time for all little Lucys and sleeping giants.”

“I’m not little!” Lucy protests at the same time Flynn mutters, “I’m no longer asleep.”

* * *

The day moves at a crawl, and Flynn spends most of it flopped sideways on the couch, knees dangling over the arm with whatever history book Lucy hands to him.

Occasionally throughout the morning, he pauses his reading and note taking to watch the rest of the group, whom Logan has practicing hold escapes with each other. Rufus had forbidden Flynn from physically helping with the training (good _lord,_ the man is such a mother hen), but he occasionally calls out advice and suggestions, or points out things so that Logan can then correct them.

Then he naps through lunch, waking to find a sandwich as tall as his forearm is long waiting for him on the coffee table. Mason takes pity on him when he spots Flynn staring at it dully, and pulls half the fillings and bread out, reducing it to a more manageable size. Even then, he only manages four bites before shoving it aside disinterestedly. 

He gets up not long after that and goes looking for Logan, finding both him and Rufus squatting down and peering into the ventilation shaft in the to-be holding cell. He immediately offers to help, but Rufus just as immediately shakes his head, and somehow he instead ends up back on the couch with Lucy sat behind him digging her thumbs into the knots in his shoulders. 

And then after that he falls asleep again. Because apparently this is his life now.

* * *

Agent Christopher has been absent all day, and eventually he’s informed that this is because it’s the weekend and she always spends them at home with her kids unless there’s a mothership alert. 

Flynn had no idea it was a Saturday. Which then leads him to realise he has no idea what the date is either.

“October 14th,” Lucy tells him when he works up the courage to ask. “2017, seeing as that’s not a given in our lives.”

“I knew it was late fall, just not anything more precise,” he muses, passing over his latest batch of historical notes. The pair of them have just discovered that in this latest timeline, Charles Batchelor hadn’t gotten married to his wife Roxanne until two years later, and somehow as a consequence, never gone to Paris to help with the Ivry-sur-Seine electrical installations. Which in turn meant he never met a young Nickola Tesla. Tesla had ended up in America working for Edison anyway, so things had developed as expected from there, but it’s still weird.

They have no idea what caused the change. A mystery indeed.

“I can’t imagine time keeping was high on your list of priorities while in jail,” Lucy yawns, passing him the pack of triple chocolate cookies they’re snacking on. Mason had tried to hide them in a tin labelled biscuits as if the British naming convention would somehow throw the rest of them off the scent. 

“Well I tried to keep track to start with,” Flynn shrugs, munching quietly. “But there didn’t seem much point in keeping it up when I had no windows, the lights never changed, and I’d go days without seeing the wardens.”

“But you were supposed to get an hour’s outside exercise every day!” she exclaims with an alarmed look. “That’s a basic human right!”

Flynn chuckles darkly, not trying to hide the bitter edge.

“Oh Lucy,” he scoffs. “Didn’t you hear? Convicted terrorists don’t deserve those. I counted myself lucky if I got more than one tray of semi-edible slop a day.”

He stands without another word, tossing his book to one side carelessly, and storms off to his room.

* * *

He has no idea how the rest of them organise beds between them that night, but he pulls his covers up over his head and doesn’t come back out until dawn the next morning.

* * *

Rufus pokes him into the medbay after a tense and stilted breakfast, and grumpily concedes that his joints and tendons have settled enough that keeping them mobile and in use is probably more important for them than rest now.

“But don’t overdo it Bandit,” he grunts, handing him a single ibuprofen and a glass of water. “I didn’t slave over WebMD for hours and hours teaching myself this shit just so you could ignore me and damage yourself further anyway.”

“Seriously?” Flynn frowns. “WebMD?”

“Well not only WebMD,” Rufus huffs with wry amusement. “There’s lots of nursing tutorials on YouTube and I read some military first and second aid textbooks from cover to cover about a dozen times.”

“Doesn’t Logan already know all that sort of stuff?”

“You can call him Wyatt you know dude.”

“Military etiquette dictates that we don’t use each other’s first names until given direct permission otherwise,” Flynn tells him plainly, buttoning his pants back up and hopping off the cold metal table. “You didn’t answer my question.”

 _“Wyatt_ does know a lot of trauma medicine yes, but that was totally useless to me when it was him with a bullet in his shoulder.”

“Ah,” Flynn grins sheepishly. “Sorry about that. It won’t happen again?”

“Moving on,” Rufus snorts. “After I had to pull that slug out him and stitch him up with only his slurred and garbled instructions to help, I might have gone a bit overboard with ensuring I was prepared for any potential next times.”

“And now you’re a very good sister Carlin,” he lilts softly, patting the other man condescendingly on the head. “Just like the nurse-nuns of my homeland.”

“Yass queen, and don’t you forget it,” Rufus winks, helping him pull his undershirt back down. “But I also need to plead with you to talk to Lucy before you leave, so hold your horses and sit back down.”

Flynn sighs deeply. He’s been avoiding doing that all morning.

“Here goes,” Rufus grimaces once Flynn has stepped back away from the door. “Now I have no idea what you said to each other last night, but please talk to her before Wyatt vibrates out of his skin with anxiety. Also I’m sick of watching you and her mope about like kicked puppies already and we both know you love me too much to leave me sad. So fix whatever the two of you mutually fucked up. Please, or Jiya will kill _me_ for being a failure of a mediator.”

“Fine,” he grunts. “But you have to let me help with vent mapping this afternoon in return.”

“Ugh, deal,” Rufus grumbles, holding his pinkie finger out to shake. Flynn takes it without question. “Now go spew heartfelt apologies at each other.”

* * *

Flynn’s attempt at an apology goes like so:

“Lucy-”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry Flynn-”

“Lucy-”

“- I really didn’t mean to insinuate anything or-”

“Lucy-”

“-imply that prisons have reasonable living conditions and-”

“Lucy,” he repeats monotone, his lips beginning to twitch in amusement.

“-and I should have known that you wouldn’t-”

“Lucy please-”

“-have been treated fairly or gotten-”

“Lucy.” 

Definitely smiling now.

“-any reasonable human treatment at all and-“

“Draga molim te-”

“-it was _so stupid_ of me to-”

“Ti si svjetlo moga srca,” he continues in Croatian over the top of her.

“-just assume that laws get followed in a place like that-”

“Već si oproštena draga.”

“-and I really am so, so sorry that I- wait, what are you saying? That’s not English anymore.”

Flynn just rolls his eyes, still trying not to laugh, and hooks her in for a gentle hug.

“Oh okay,” she breathes into his shoulder. “I guess we’re okay then?”

“Tako mi je drago da ne znaš što govorim,” he chuckles. “Yes, we’re okay.”

And well. That’s that. 

Apology managed?

* * *

“Flyyyyyyyyn!”

A sing-song lilt, echoing through the shafts to him with metallic reverberance.

“Ruuuuuufus!” he calls back.

“Wyatt’s making pizza, come out!”

“But I can see daylight!”

“I know you don’t want to go outside anyway Bandit! You’re afraid of clouds!”

“Hey!” he protests loudly, turning onto his back so he can scoot feet first back towards the Lifeboat bay more easily. “Don’t you know it’s bad manners to mock a man’s triggers?” He’s grinning as he says it though, his own sense of humour also being inappropriate and inappropriately morbid.

“Only if the person you’re mocking is a punk ass bitch!” Rufus laughs, the sound ringing off the metal like a resonating drum.

“Ow! Jebati!” he swears a second later as he slides his legs down into the last angled section between him and the main hanger with a bang. Slipping quickly down the incline, he lets Rufus pulls him the rest of the way out by his ankles and then pull him to his feet.

“You okay man?” the engineer asks him, brushing dust off his back.

“Yeah, just banged my elbow on the corner that’s all,” he grumbles, running his hands through his hair and shaking his head, showering more grime down himself. “You said something about pizza?”

“Yeah, Wyatt’s on cooking duty so oven pizzas and excessive amounts of salad is the order of the day.”

“Well Lucy will be happy at least” he snorts. “Will I get away without a shower or will Jiya disapprove and forbid me from the table?”

“Ehhh,” Rufus clicks, peering up and down him critically. “I’d risk it, but also she likes me best.”

“Shower it is,” he rolls his eyes. “Want to join me baby?”

“You have become an outrageous flirt since you outed yourself.”

“One,” he corrects politely as they climb up towards the kitchen and lounge area, “I was always an outrageous flirt. Two, it makes Logan uncomfortable so I will only be upping the ante from now on.”

“It does not make me uncomfortable!” Logan states overly loudly as they pass him.

“Yes it does,” Jessica snickers from the table where she’s slicing cucumber with clumsy hands.

“What makes Wyatt uncomfortable?” Lucy asks as she appears from elsewhere in the bunker, Mason on her heels. 

“The fact that he wants Flynn to take him up against the shower wall,” Jessica laughs.

“I do not!” Logan exclaims. “I did not say that Lucy. I am very comfortable in both my masculinity and my sexuality thank you very much. This bunch of teenagers think they’re hilarious though.”

“Well I’m going for that shower,” Flynn announces mildly. “And yes, there’s a standing invitation for any of you to join me.”

“I miss professional work environments,” Mason sighs loudly.

“I don’t know, I’m kind of enjoying the change from Stanford history dept’s prudishness” he hears Lucy laugh, before he disappears into his room to collect his towels and washbag.

* * *

_Wyatt looks over the blueprints one last time, the bag containing the key cards, gas mask, and steel key sat next to his hand._

_“And we’re sure that’s definitely his cell?” he double checks._

_“Yes yes,” Connor reassures with an irritated look. “I’ve checked and triple checked. He hasn’t been moved once since becoming an inmate, and that’s where Denise and Lucy were escorted to before you went to South Carolina.”_

_“So now,” Wyatt breathes out. “We decide whether to wait for a mission to 1940s California to pop up, or if we should just jump to Oakland State of our own volition.”_

* * *

“Hey, you wouldn’t ever leave me for Flynn would you?” Rufus asks as they load the dishwasher together. 

“Out of the two of us, I am not the one who needs to be concerned about that,” Jiya splutters, almost dropping a plate in her laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pelican Bay is the only supermax and DoC with long term solitary holdings in the state of California. I flicked through all the prison scenes in the show and couldn't spot a facility name anywhere; all i got was an entrance sign reading "Maximum Security Prison". However PB didn't open until 1989, so I doubt it will have already been under construction in the 1940s. If anyone has the answer to this conundrum, please share. It's gone midnight and I am researched out 😂
> 
> IMMEDIATE UPDATE: I just found a sign saying its Oakland state penitentiary. Will research and update tomorrow (well, later tomorrow). You can have the chapter now anyway, despite the error.
> 
> THE THRILLING CONCLUSION: After an hour trawling round Google, Wikipedia, and CDCR's website, I'm pretty sure that they just conveniently invented Oakland for the show. There's a minimum security rehab facility near Salinas that opened in the '48, and everything else until the mid '60s is near LA. But heyho, there's the information if you want to incorporate it to your own fics.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said said I was going to stretch out timelines? For science?

Flynn is currently a happy man.

Flynn has cake. Chocolate cake in fact.

Technically it’s gateaux, but he’s really not fussy. It’s not homemade either, having come out of the fridge boxed up and in a tub made of single use plastic. But again. Not fussy. Cake is cake and chocolate is chocolate.

His only real complaint is that there’s no cake forks and he’s been made to use a teaspoon to eat it like some uncouth savage. Not even a dessert spoon; a _teaspoon._

“Bloody hell,” Mason whistles as Flynn cheerfully scrapes the last of the thick frosting off his plate. “That disappeared quick.”

“I’m half afraid he’s going to vault over the table and steal mine,” Lucy mock-grimaces, picking her plate up and cradling it protectively. 

“Don’t tempt me,” Flynn grins at her. “Can I scrape the tub out?”

“Sure, go for it,” Wyatt indicates with one hand, eyes wide and bemused. “Then it won’t need rinsing before going in the recycling box.”

“Well now we know how to get calories in him,” Rufus snorts as they all stare at him attacking the plastic with gusto. Flynn’s sparse eating habits are an open secret now, and they’re all increasingly unafraid to more or less hand feed him when he’s being particularly reticent. 

“Oh I’m well aware that I will regret this later,” Flynn smirks as he rotates it while dragging his spoon along the centre ridge. “My stomach is going to hate me in about half an hour. Refeeding syndrome is a cruel bitch.”

“I hereby call dibs on not being the one to hold his hair out of the way while he throws up,” Rufus raises his hand. “Sorry Bandit, but even the bro code only stretches so far. I already did my time. Twelve years of it! In Azka-MIT! Seriously, undergrad as a sixteen year old? Totally sucked.”

“Flynn doesn’t even have long enough hair for that,” Lucy snorts as she politely cuts into her own slice. “I think you’re safe from a dorm party throw-back.”

“And you were only at MIT for seven years anyway,” Mason sniffs in an aloof manner. “That’s all it took you to go from freshman undergrad to doctor philosophiae. You were done by the time you were twenty-three.”

“Aw papa’s proud of you,” Flynn smirks, leaning back in his chair in smug satisfaction as he licks his lips clean.

“And exactly how many doctorates do you have?” Mason asks him with a pointed look. “Because Rufus has three. And he could get easily get another if he could be bothered to compile his mathematical knowledge into a thesis.”

“I have half an MPhil in ethical hacking, subnetting, and pattern analysis?” he offers with a cheeky grin. “Does that count?”

“That’s an MRes,” Lucy shrugs with a mildly impressed look. “Masters by research. A one-year independent research project that you can convert into an MPhil if you can secure the funding and resources for an additional year. And if you go all out, you can sometimes con the college board into letting you turn the MPhil into a full PhD by adding another couple of years study.”

“Well I would have the whole MPhil by now if I hadn’t to go into hiding in the middle of it,” Flynn mutters. “I um,” he coughs awkwardly, aware that’s he just single handedly tanked the good mood. “I was supposed to submit my thesis for it in 2015. But-”

Everyone exchanges uncomfortable looks. They all know what happened to his family in 2014.

“Hey look, I didn’t even manage to finish high school; dropped out in my senior year,” Logan picks up when the silence starts to drag. “Didn’t even get my GED until the year after I signed on. Picked up some college language credits here and there later on, and I could maybe use them to scrape together an actual degree if I also finish the tactics and military history courses I started with Delta but… Yeah, I’m definitely the dumb jock of the team.”

“What about you Jess?” Jiya asks as she sets her spoon down. “Something tells me you didn’t let Wyatt drag you out of school with him.”

“No, I graduated,” she huffs, shooting Wyatt a fond look. _“And_ I didn’t get banned from senior prom. Not that I went anyway, solidarity and all that. Then I moved away with Wyatt, stayed in partner accommodation while he was in basic. Once he was deployed, I tricked the US Military into paying for me to go to the local community college for an Associates degree. Took me forever to finish it, but I’ve got a joint-honours in sociology and behavioural science.”

“Wait, you finished that!?” Logan suddenly grins, his face lighting up with delight.

“Yeah of course? Babe, you came to my graduation in….” she trails off with obvious dawning realisation. “Oh. Yeah, yeah I- that was in 2011. While I was...”

“Oof, dead wives,” Flynn drawls with as much false-humour as he can summon, trying in vain to save the remaining shreds of light-hearted atmosphere. “Real mood killer those.” 

Nope. He’s murdered it. Atmosphere is dead, deceased, and gone. 

“Okay, I’m calling it.” Mason sighs. “Alcohol time. We all need booze after that car crash of a conversation. Beer or shots?”

“Shots,” Rufus nods manically. “Definitely shots.”

“Hear hear,” Flynn bites his bottom lip with his eyebrows raised.

* * *

When he pads into the kitchen the next morning, he finds Rufus and Jiya bundled up together under a blanket looking miserable. They both have steaming coffee mugs placed before them, and Jiya seems to be most of the way to sleep on Rufus’ shoulder despite her pained expression.

No one else seems to be up yet.

“Hey,” Rufus croaks at him, looking pretty green around the gills.

“Where is everyone?” Flynn wonders in a quiet rumble, double checking the watch he’d lifted off one of the many racist bastards they’d met in 1935. Yes, it is really is after nine. So why is it so quiet?

“Sleeping off their hangovers like sensible people?” Rufus groans. 

“Hangovers!? How much did you all drink!?”

“Mistakes were made man, so many mistakes.”

Flynn had only had two shots of vodka before the cake he’d devoured had come back with a vengeance, intent on punishing him for his gluttony. He had narrowly avoided actually throwing it all back up, but when Lucy had insisted on manhandling him into bed once he felt it safe to leave the bathroom, he hadn’t really complained. 

Still feeling queasy, throat burning and eyes stinging, he’d fallen asleep pretty quick once he’d burrowed into his covers. He thought that everyone else would’ve followed him and gone to their own beds soon after.

“What if the mothership alarm goes off?” Flynn asks flatly. He knows everyone needs time to unwind occasionally, but Rittenhouse has been jumping approximately every three days since they got hold of the main time machine. And today is the third day after returning JFK. Surely they weren’t _all_ that stupid?

“Then you’re on point,” Rufus winces. “I’ll get you there, and Lucy will no doubt pull herself together enough to accompany you, but Wyatt is right out. Jessica really got him to go town with the whiskey.”

“You know it was less than two weeks ago that you guys were refusing to break me out of prison,” Flynn mutters grumpily, heading for the cereals before he remembers that _there’s no fucking milk left._ “And now I’m somehow the one in fucking charge.”

Just great. This day is going to be _awesome,_ he can tell.

* * *

Annoyed at everyone, he takes his coffee and bowl of dry cocoa pops to the room that’s going to be their makeshift holding cell. It’s mostly been emptied out now, only a single metal desk and two half full filing cabinets remaining. He thought they were going to leave the last cot with one of the boulder-mattress on it in here too, but then he realises that Jessica’s arrival means they’ve been in need of another bed. 

Well that explains the mystery of where the extra person has been sleeping, if not which room or with who.

Sticking his tongue directly into his cereal (because no one is watching so why the fuck not?) and then putting the bowl down on the top of the desk along with his mug, he approaches the first of the remaining cabinets. The top drawer has already been emptied when he forces it open, but the middle is full of ancient manila folders with red ink stamps all over them. Mostly old US military division logos with the occasional strategic missile symbol thrown in for good measure. One or two with CONFIDENTIAL stamped on in all capitals. 

Flicking one such of the latter open out of curiosity, he finds three A4 (ish?) sized sheets of yellowing paper, typewriter text detailing the personal information and assignments of some young army private by the name of James McElroy. No one significant Flynn is sure, else it wouldn’t have been abandoned here. 

Tossing it aside, he finds the other files to all be similarly mundane, if less personal. Lists of construction materials and costs, weekly ration supply lists, a half filled out request form for an engineer corps soldier familiar with central heating systems. 

A disciplinary notification for one Corporal Hillson, who was caught trying to set his Staff Sergeant’s beret badge in a tub of jello. Flynn winces at that one; he remembers the unpleasant consequences of being caught carrying out harmless pranks himself, and he at least had the dubious protection of being a young soldier in the mid-90s rather than the early 1950s.

After licking up another mouthful of cereal, he neatens the pile of discarded files he’s created and then pokes his head back out into the corridor. The door to Mason’s makeshift machine shop is open, so he slips in and quickly finds an empty cardboard box amongst the detritus of metal offcuts and shavings. 

He slips a couple of useful looking circuit boards and chips into his hoody pockets too, because you can take (kick…) the man out of the NSA, but you can’t take the NSA out of the man. 

Within half an hour he’s emptied all five filing cabinet drawers into the box and dragged the cabinets themselves over to the door that opens onto the basement ladder. 

Pleased with himself, he decides to take a peek around the basement. He’ll wait for help before trying to lug the furniture down with him, but he hasn’t been down for a look once yet. Wyatt has some half-baked ideas for turning at least part of it into a gymnasium and training area, so it must be fairly sizeable. 

The door swings open and damp, cold air wafts straight up at him, a drip echoing wetly in the-

* * *

“Hey Flynn, you back with me?”

Flynn blinks. And then blinks again.

Lucy is squatting down in front of him, Mason hovering with an alarmed look over her shoulder.

“What-?” he rasps, his eyes bleary and his jaw aching. Realising with a start that he’s clenching almost every muscle in his body, he tries to force his arms and legs to relax at least.

“I found you sat on the floor staring into space,” Mason tells him with soft concern. “And when I couldn’t get you to respond, I went and fetched Lucy.”

“I- what?” he rasps again, tongue feeling wooden in his mouth. “I was- I- the basement?”

Lucy looks to their right towards it and then back at him, her hand slowly reaching out and then coming to rest on his bicep. He shivers at the contact

“The basement door’s open, yes,” she says. “You wanted to go down there?”

Flynn nods numbly. He remembers opening the door and smelling the cold-

Ah.

He wheezes out a slightly hysterical laughter, distantly aware that his eyes have probably widened enough to make him look half crazed. He remembers the frigid damp air slapping him in the face and the sound of distant dripping water. And importantly, he remembers instantly comparing it to the horrific Oakland Supermax shower cells, one of which he was shoved naked into approximately once a fortnight. 

They were all so small, he couldn’t even hold one arm out horizontally without having to bend his elbow, and the walls were bare concrete with a green film of slime down the back, metal grating to stand on that left hexagonal imprints on the soles of your feet.

And you can forget hot water.

“I think- I think I’ll stay away from the basement until Rufus and Wyatt have worked out how to dry it out and warm it up,” he croaks. “Solitary prison showers are…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, and blessedly, Lucy ignores it anyway.

“Probably sensible to steer clear, yes,” Lucy smiles warmly, her hand rubbing up and down his arm. 

“Thought you were hungover?” he asks with a shudder, shamelessly trying to change the topic.

“Nah,” she tells him, smile widening into a grin. “Unlike the rest of the idiots we live with, I called it a night after just the one more glass. I just took advantage of the lazy atmosphere to have a lie in. Wyatt and Jess are totally fucked though. You want to come and take the piss out of them?”

He nods dumbly, taking her offer of a hand up when she slides it off his shoulder and holds it out.

* * *

_“January 2nd… 1941,” Jiya reads off as everyone gathers round. “Los Angeles.”_

_“Well I don’t know,” Lucy tells them plainly. “Hitler is in power; Europe is engulfed in World War II.”_

_“What’s that got to do with LA?” Wyatt asks with a puzzled frown._

_“I don’t know,” Lucy admits. “But I know who might.”_

_“Flynn…” Wyatt nods after a moment. “And he doesn’t know we’ve already agreed to break him out.”_

_“Oh, I do like a bit of leverage,” Denise grins._

* * *

“Logan!” Flynn claps loudly, strolling into the main bay behind Lucy and Mason. “You look remarkably good for someone who was identified as a corpse this morning!”

Both Logans, now also huddled miserably on the couch where Rufus and Jiya were earlier, look at him despairingly and then stick their middle fingers up at him. 

“In fact you both look like you could do with standing for an hour in the shower,” he barrels onwards with a grin as he follows Lucy to the coffee maker. “After the hour, you should have summoned the strength to actually turn the water on!” 

“Dude stop,” Logan groans melodramatically. 

“Or you could drink a beer?” 

“Flynn…” Jessica grimaces murderously.

“It’s good for what ales you!”

Next to him, Lucy is valiantly trying not to snicker, biting her bottom lip as she pulls two mugs out of the cupboard and flicks the controls onto _darker than my soul_ (that’s what Flynn calls it anyway, the rest of them just call it dark roast).

“It’s okay though guys, we’ll find you some sunglasses,” he jokes next, leaning back on the countertop and crossing his arms and his ankles. “Then you will have all the PPE you need for safely opening the fridge.”

In a display of remarkable willpower, Logan finds the energy to grab a cushion and launch it in Flynn’s general direction. Flynn cackles as he dodges the soft projectile but decides to take mercy on them and keep his mouth shut from now on. 

Well, for the next five minutes at least.

* * *

“Do I even want to know?” Agent Christopher asks when she steps into the main hanger at about 1pm. She has two bags of groceries to compliment the disappointed expression she adopts the second she sees most of the team’s long faces.

“Best if you don’t even ask,” Flynn smirks at her as he washes the grime off his hands. Coffee finished pouring, he and Lucy had returned to the holding cell and tackled the cleaning part of clearing it out. The walls have now all been sprayed with mould and mildew remover, and the floor lightly scrubbed with bleach and antiseptic. It still looks dire, but they’ll be able to work on securing it and making it escape proof without risking inhaling 70 years of bacteria now.

“There’s a dozen more bags and an icebox in the car up top,” Christopher sighs at him with a shake of her head, hands on hips. “Go fetch them.”

“Yes Ma’am,” he drawls, tossing down the hand towel. “Right away ma’am. And how high would you like me to jump ma’am?”

“I can and will send you back to jail Mr Flynn,” Christopher narrows her eyes at him. “And the answer is about six feet upwards. To ground level. Where the car is.”

“Ugh, it’s like your last slave died of a hangover or something,” he winks as he passes her. “Lucy! Exciting news! Agent Christopher says I can go outside!”

* * *

Except when the two of them have gotten to the top of the entrance ladder, Flynn can’t make himself go any further. The door is open, the fresh fall air is flowing around them, and the car is but a matter of metres away across the grass. 

But there’s no clouds in the sky and Flynn’s already had one blackout panic attack today.

“Wait here,” Lucy tells him, cottoning on the second he hesitates, one hand white knuckle gripping the door frame. “I’ll bring the bags to you and you can take them to the base of the ladder.”

Nodding agreeably, he decides that’s a sensible plan. He’s still being useful, being helpful. But he doesn’t have to actually go outside to be that. He feels completely ridiculous and more than a little ashamed of himself anyway, but at least he knows better than to make himself suffer just to maintain a façade of pride.

“Do you think we’re supposed to bring the big plastic crate of candles and string lights down?” She asks him once she’s handed over the first two canvas shopping bags. Vegetables, cereal boxes, and a lot of dried pasta. A couple of bottles of soda too.

“Candles?” he asks back, pausing with one foot on the top rung. “I don’t know, I’ll ask.”

* * *

Shopping safely stowed away (and several quarts of milk placed in the fridge!), Flynn prods a grumbling Rufus into motion and soon they have the maps of ventilation shafts they’ve been making spread out in front of the Lifeboat computer bank. 

“Why on Earth are all these not on the original blueprints?” Christopher clucks in annoyance as she peers down at their creation. “Unless aircon systems were a new novelty when this place was built?”

“Not likely,” Lucy shakes her head. “The first air shaft system was installed by David St. Pierre DuBose in 1933, when he designed and built his new house in North Carolina. The system was only a prototype, but it worked so well that by 1945, Robert Sherman invented a box cooling unit to use with similar setups that worked as a filter and dehumidifier as well as a heater and cooler. This bunker wasn’t built for another seven years after that, by which time ventilation systems like this one were common in most industrial and military complexes. By the 1960s, most new build residential houses had them too.”

“There probably are blueprints for them,” Flynn mulls over. “But I bet they were kept separate from the main bunker plans. That way if anyone managed to steal the designs, they wouldn’t find out that this place essentially has an unguarded back door. 1950s military men were incredibly paranoid about commie spies.”

“We could just go and ask?” Rufus suggests with a smirk. “There’s a time machine parked up behind us. Quick trip to the adjacent valley in July 1951. Stroll over and knock on the door?”

“Better yet, just crawl straight into the vents and land in the middle of this room,” Flynn grins. 

“Now see, my plan only probably involves us dying horrible bullet ridden deaths. Yours definitely does.”

“Or I could just assign a modern junior agent to tracking the vent blueprints down,” Christopher tells them sternly. “In the meantime, we should decide how we’re blocking off this access.”

“We should leave it as an emergency escape route,” Lucy winces, looking at the narrow entrance nervously. “We can’t all jump in the lifeboat if we’re found and attacked so you, Connor, and Jiya should all have another way out.”

“I can rig up a one-way deadbolt system and block the exit pipe,” Flynn suggests. “We’ll be able to quickly open the grate from this side to get out, but no one will be getting in that way. The shaft itself will need reinforcing though, to stop anyone from simply digging around it by cutting through the shaft on either side.”

“Build the grate and fit some proximity alarm triggers on either side of it,” Christopher shakes her head. We’ll worry about reinforcing it later; I’ll make sure it eventually gets concrete poured around it and recovered with topsoil.”

“I’m going to put hidden cameras by the front door too,” Flynn agrees. “A closed network system so they can’t be hacked. That way if Rittenhouse…”

He trails off with an unimpressed look as the mothership alarm starts blaring.

God fucking dammit.

* * *

_Wyatt finds Rufus hunched over a meaty looking textbook, one with a cover that looks decidedly more modern than Lucy’s usual selection. Probably not a history tomb then._

_“What you reading bud?” he asks as he bites into a crunchy apple. Flynn has now been in the bunker for almost an hour, and the tall, too-skinny Slav constantly looks like he’s about to keel over and pass out. Wyatt was right with his suspicions, the man’s a traumatised walking disaster. As they’re concerned about leaving him alone, right now Lucy is with him. Hopefully trying to surreptitiously feed him._

_“Medical textbook,” Rufus replies absently, his attention clearly all on the words and not on his friend._

_“Thinking of getting another degree?” Wyatt grins, dropping onto the hard bed next to him, legs bouncing upwards as he leans back too far for a second._

_Rufus doesn’t reply and simply tips the book towards him so that he can see where he has open to._

_It’s a double page spread, mostly taken up by a labelled diagram of an arm covered in thin bleeding lines._

_The pages’ title makes Wyatt swallow hard. Recognising Self-inflicted Injuries: Razor Cuts._

* * *

“Chicago, 1871,” Rufus reads off the screen as they all troop over with slumped shoulders. Why today of all days? When he feels like total shit?

“October 8th?” Lucy immediately asks with a pinched look. Flynn too, looks like he’s bitten into a rotten apple. 

“About mid afternoon on the 6th,” Rufus frowns back. “I do not like the implications of you immediately knowing the month and day.”

“The Great Chicago Fire,” Flynn tells him flatly. 

“Fucking really?” Rufus moans, aware that he sounds like a whiny teenager and really not caring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just spent like an hour reading up on the history of american aircons systems. I'm not even american. Nor does anyone I know have one.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now you get to play the game of "What's a historical fact, and what did Ed just make up?"  
> I have 23 tabs of research still open, so you should have some fun working it out 😏

“Question,” Flynn clears his throat as he, Rufus and Lucy stomp towards the Lifeboat. “If we know they jumped to mid-afternoon on the 6th, why don’t we just… arrive a few hours earlier than them?”

“What like, show up at 9am?” Rufus frowns thoughtfully.

“There’s literally nothing they can do to stop us,” Flynn shrugs, stopping at the base of the rolling stairs. “If they jump first – and they always do - then they’ve fixed that event in time. So long as we stay low profile, they won’t even know we’ve done it.”

“I don’t see why we couldn’t,” Lucy muses. “It would certainly help us get the lay of the land before we have to start worrying about them changing things.”

“And,” Flynn nods. “We’ll have more time to find clothes and currency.”

“This sounds suspiciously like a win-win,” Rufus narrows his eyes. “So why has this never occurred to us before?”

“Because Rittenhouse were going out of their way to prevent us from having any time to stop and think,” Lucy purses her lips. “And besides, on most of the jumps we made we had to wait for Flynn to start causing a ruckus before we could do anything at all.”

“That’s true enough,” Rufus nods with another thoughtful look. “You really did pull some of your schemes totally out of the left field dude.”

“It gets worse when you realise that the crazier ones were just me following the vague instructions from Lucy’s journal,” Flynn huffs with a tight smile. “So technically they were Lucy’s schemes.”

“Congratulations,” Rufus deadpans. “We played ourselves.”

“But… I’m assuming I wrote the journal based on my experiences?” Lucy questions with her own confused frown. “Which I got from chasing you around? And we were chasing you round because you were reading my experiences. Which I wrote based on… this is hurting my head.”

“How about we debate the merits of closed time loops versus timeline-zero theory another time,” Agent Christopher cuts in, walking over and hefting a distinctive metal suitcase up to balance against her chest. “Seeing as Wyatt isn’t in a fit state to accompany you, you’ll be needing these Mr Flynn.”

She pops the catches with her free hand and opens the lid to reveal thick black moulding foam. With two brand new Berretta M9s nestled within it.

“Oh now these are my kind of toys,” Flynn grins, delicately scooping them out and immediately starting the usual safety checks.

* * *

_“He’s not eating properly,” Lucy whispers to Jiya once Flynn has slunk off after dinner, Rufus volunteering to go check on him after a minute. “Worried about making himself sick.”_

_Jiya nods; she’d noticed Flynn picking listlessly at his dinner too._

_“After six months of shitty prison food, he’s probably right to be concerned,” she tells her in a low voice. “We’ll have to be careful with getting him to eat regularly in manageable portions.”_

_“He’s thin as a rake,” Lucy hisses. “What the fuck did they do to him in that cell!?”_

* * *

The Lifeboat whirs to a stop and Flynn tips his head back against the backrest and gulps in the warm, metallic air. His head is spinning and his stomach heaving.

“These trips really are super rough on you,” Lucy grimaces sympathetically as she reaches over and undoes his buckles for him, somehow having managed to undo her own already. 

“I’ve been waterboarded for three days straight and felt better afterwards,” Flynn croaks as she and Rufus help him shakily to his feet. “Please tell me it gets better the more jumps you survive?”

“I’ve been theorising you get it worse because you’re so tall,” Rufus tells him as he pulls on the door catch. “In simple terms, you’re a longer cantilever for the gyro effect to act on.”

“Fucking great,” he swallows as he gently pulls Rufus back away from the open portal and cautiously peers out. When he’s only greeted with gentle rolling hills and some willow branches gently swaying in the breeze, he takes his hand off his teammate’s chest and slowly starts to climb out.

Lucy climbs down next, but only once Flynn has had a good look around and ensured there’s no one round to spot them. She immediately shivers in the cool October air, and Flynn has to forcibly override his instinct to go and throw a warm arm around her; he’s a _terrorist,_ she doesn’t deserve to have to deal with his needy bullshit. 

“Fly-boy, throw down our jackets will you?” he calls up to Rufus instead. “Wind’s a bit chilly.”

Rufus does so without complaint, shrugging on his own bomber before climbing down to join them. Once Flynn has finished half zipping his leather jacket up, he turns to help Lucy with her wool overcoat, as her hair has gotten caught around the collar button. 

“How far are we from the city?” she asks once they’re all suitably bundled up and situated. Rufus seals the Lifeboat back up as they turn and start to walk towards the parched grass plain they’ve landed next to; there’s a double hedge not too far in the distance, which probably indicates a track or road of some sort. 

“Outskirts are less than a mile north-east of here,” Rufus replies, head titling back to smile up at the sky. “Feels good to be out and about.”

“You and I have very different ideas of fun,” Flynn grunts, doing the opposite and staring at his feet. He’s not doing too bad all considering, but he can’t wait for the frantic running and chasing sleepers to start so that he has some adrenaline in his system to take the edge off the anxiety. “I feel like the sky’s about to reach down and swallow me whole.”

“Here,” Lucy nudges his arm, offering him her hand to hold. “The big bad blue can’t take you if you’re tethered to me.”

“Nobody tell Logan,” Flynn snorts self-depreciatingly as he sheepishly wraps her palm in his. He knows its purely phycological, but it _does_ actually help a little.

“You’re worried about _Wyatt’s_ teasing when I’m stood right here?” Rufus laughs. “Wonna hold daddy’s hand too while we cross the road baby?”

“I just learnt far too much about yours and Jiya’s sex life,” Flynn mock-flinches with a grin.

“You’re the one who twisted it,” Rufus points out, still laughing.

* * *

Within ten minutes of following the dusty track they find, they finally crest a low hill and find themselves staring down at the vast expanse of Lake Michigan. The land before them is a gentle slope down to the shore, the water stretching on so far it might as well be a sea, and packed between them and it, are thousands of ramshackle wooden buildings.

“Jesus, no wonder this place almost entirely burnt to the ground,” Rufus whistles. “It’s audibly screaming _humongous fire hazard.”_

“We should get off this track and head for the buildings,” Flynn grunts, adjusting his holster straps under his jacket. “We’ll start encountering people soon if we stay on it, and we need to find clothes first.”

“We got time,” Lucy grins. “Sun’s not even approaching the noon point yet.”

“What do you think Rittenhouse is going to try?” Flynn asks her as they slip through a gap in the hedge into a barren field, the ground not yet re-tilled following the harvest season. Bending down, he picks up a discarded soybean pod, yellow and cracked. It’s quite a bit smaller than the modern varieties that are grown in the 21st century, but otherwise it looks the same. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but they probably have the most to gain from stopping the fire from starting,” she grimaces. “The aftermath resulted in masses of new building regulations all across the country, as well a huge humanitarian effort that among other things, held solidify stable relations with Britain and Europe. At this point it’s only been 100 years since the revolutionary war, and while things are amicable because of the impact of the civil war, this really helped get the two countries properly back on an even keel. And my personal favourite side-effect, free public libraries sprung into being thanks to a donation of 8000 books to the people of the city.”

“So….” Rufus draws out. “We have to make sure that 5 square miles of Chicago burns down, or else important advancements never happen? How many people are we condemning to death?”

“Directly in the blaze? About 300,” Flynn mutters as they come up behind a wooden barn. “But more than 100,000 people were left homeless. And we all know that even the modern world does not treat the poor and destitute kindly.”

“Yikes,” is all Rufus says as they round the barn and finally spot an unattended clothesline.

* * *

They’re dressed like common farming folk, but they can upgrade to something more high brow and fashionable once they’re actually in the city proper. What matters is that they’ll be able to get in now without attracting too much attention. 

Stashing their own clothes in an empty water barrel back behind the barn, they make another brief stop at another farmhouse to acquire Rufus some footwear that isn’t bright white all-star converses, and then cut back across to the gravel track from before. 

Donning a cheery smile, Flynn manages to charm their way into a lift on the back of a farmer’s horse-drawn hay wagon before they’ve gone another quarter mile, and within half an hour, they’re surrounded by wooden walkways and crowds of bustling people. 

“Isn’t this the city that got raised up on stilts?” Rufus asks as they hop down into the street. They take a moment to brush any stray straw from themselves, and then Flynn starts eyeing up people for potential pickpocketing. 

“Yep,” Lucy confirms, retaking Flynn’s hand and drawing him towards the shelter of the buildings and the market stalls lining the boardwalks. “All done building by building in the 1850s and 60s with jackscrews. Of course, they only really bothered with the stone and masonry buildings, so the working-class wooden housing out here is still without a proper sewage system.”

“Unsurprisingly I had noticed that,” Rufus snorts. “Though it’s a lot drier and thus less disgusting in the street than I was expecting.”

Flynn taps Lucy’s wrist with his finger twice, and when she pauses and turns to look up at him curiously, he winks at her and then nods sideways at a group of well dressed men harassing some poor baker who’s shielding his young son from their loud sneering and laughter.

“That’s part of why the fire in two days is going to be so horrific,” Lucy continues absently as Flynn slides his hand out hers and casually ambles up to the arrogant group. After one quick glance round, Flynn whips his hand into the pocket of the man at the bag and silently slides out a hefty coin purse. He keeps walking so as not be seen pausing as he performs his slight of hand and manages to relieve the man at the far end of his coins and flintlock ball and powder bag too.

A second later, Lucy has caught back up to him and slid her hand back into his with an amused smile.

“So yes, as I was saying Rufus,” she continues on as they walk onwards. “This drought has lasted since July, and with so little moisture in the ground, the fire expanded into an unstoppable conflagration within minutes. It even managed to jump the river twice, thanks to the way the buildings are so crowded together. The fact that a lot of the roofing round here is tar coated doesn’t help either.”

“Bandit my man,” Rufus wheezes once they’ve turned onto another street, equally as busy. “That was smooth as fuck.”

* * *

They decide to save their ill-gotten monetary gains and instead help themselves to the contents of yet another semi-industrial laundrette washing yard. Their plain and worn farmers wear is exchanged for fine cotton and wool, with Lucy slipping into stays and a bustle before Flynn helps tie her into a brilliant-crimson dress and matching petticoat. 

Rufus opts for a toned down-version of Flynn’s striking black frock coat with a red vest and ascot, and they quickly settle on a cover story of wealthy husband and wife looking to establish business and trade contracts. Rufus, they decide, can be Flynn’s right-hand man seeing as Illinois is a currently a proud abolishment state.

Rufus declares this to be an excellent upgrade on his usual house-slave or servant narrative and straightens his lapels with a grin when Flynn drops a top hat onto his head.

* * *

_Wyatt feels kind of bad for leaving the bunker with no warning, especially with Flynn newly arrived and being in an even worse condition that they’d anticipated. But he got a text from_ Jessica. _Jessica who was murdered six years ago to him, alone and abandoned in a ditch._

_Lucy and Rufus will just have to look after Flynn for him in his absence._

* * *

“So the fire is claimed to have started in a barn just off of DeKoven Street near the south loop,” Lucy informs them as they move from the working class district into the more prosperous trade area near the city centre. “There’s a popular rumour that it was started by a cow kicking over a lantern, but the instigator of that tale latter admitted he made it up. The exact cause is therefore unknown, but it definitely started in or around that barn.”

“Anyone we should be protecting in particular?” Flynn asks, silently helping himself to yet another oblivious man’s purse. A few more metres along the boardwalk, and he hands the small leather bag over to Rufus with a smirk.

Lucy pauses, stopping outside a sizable looking dining house filled with upper class men and women taking an early luncheon.

“Matthias Schaffer,” she suggests after a few seconds. “He’s the fire department’s watchman that will be on duty that night. He made a mistake regarding the location of the fire and sent the firemen to the wrong place, which gave the small barn fire time to engulf everything around it. If Rittenhouse get rid of him and replace him, the fire will be contained quickly and the city will survive as it is.”

“Any idea where we’ll find him?” 

“We’ll have to ask around the fire stations,” Lucy hums, her keen eyes flickering over the crowd. “Schaffer is based in Courthouse Tower on the 8th, but there’s the Saturday night fire to happen first.”

“There’s more than one fire!?” Rufus asks with his eyebrows raised, deftly stepping behind Flynn when an elderly white man angrily tries to barge past him. 

“It all just adds up,” Lucy shakes her head. “The fire teams manage to contain the Saturday fire by midday on Sunday, but that leaves them tired and exhausted and having to work with damaged equipment on Sunday when the conflagration starts.”

“So it would make sense if Rittenhouse stopped the Saturday night blaze from happening, then replaced Schaffer so that the freshly rested fire teams react quicker,” Flynn ponders. “That way they should be able to contain the fire to just the barn? It would explain why they jumped two whole days before the main fire instead of just the one or less.”

“Unless we’re grasping at completely the wrong straw and they have a completely different plan or target,” Lucy mumbles. “Come on, I suggest we take the chance to get some food and find some lodgings for tonight, and then we can try and track down Schaffer.”

* * *

Flynn only picked at his thick beef stew, but Lucy coaxed him into eating most of the accompanying bread roll, so he’s feeling reasonably okay when Rufus points out a tidy looking boarding house not far from the city’s courthouse. 

Using their stolen coinage, they secure two small rooms for the night, and then Flynn spins a tale of owning a fire equipment manufacturing company to the establishment’s owner, claiming that he’s looking to expand his business into Chicago, so could she kindly point him towards the nearest fire department? He wants to speak to the firemen themselves to find out what equipment they require soonest.

* * *

They find the correct fire station on their third try, but unfortunately the 1870s exists in the age before personnel files were regulation. Not even the station’s chief knows where Schaffer’s private lodgings are, stating the man turns up on time, does his hours and causes little fuss so its therefore none of his business where the man lives. 

“Well this was a bust,” Rufus huffs once they’re back outside in the afternoon sun. “Now what?”

“Wait for Schaffer to clock in for the night,” Lucy shrugs. “Or we could go scope out Lull and Holmes planing mill, which is where the Saturday night fire will start? It’s only a 20 minute walk from here.”

“Sure why not,” Rufus sighs. “Schaffer isn’t due here for another four hours anyway.”

“The mothership will have just arrived too,” Flynn mumbles, gripping Lucy’s hand tightly once again. It gains him some odd looks as they walk seeing as he should be offering Lucy his arm and holding his head up, but he doesn’t really give a damn what other people think.

“They’ll have had to land out in the prairie like we did,” Rufus agrees, falling in on Flynn’s right, one step behind, hands clasped behind his back. “So it’ll take them at least half an hour before they make it into the city. We should start keeping an eye out though.”

* * *

They don’t go into the planing mill, not wanting to arouse suspicion, but nothing seems out of place in the surrounding area. Dry wood offcuts are stacked behind the building amongst great piles of sawdust, and the humming of saws can be heard echoing out into the street, but everything is as it should be. 

There’s no one loitering around watching the building, no one unexpectedly shows up to fix the faulty boiler that starts the blaze, and a quick check of the quaint locals inn not quite opposite reveals that no one out of place has been seen all week that anyone can recall. 

With no other better ideas, they head back to the fire department to meet their Watchman.

* * *

“Yes I’m Matthius Schaffer, what of it?” A gruff young-looking man informs them, mannerisms older than his face suggests. 

“We have a suspicion that someone wants to replace you for your watch shift on Sunday night,” Lucy explains calmly. “And that they mean to use violence to remove you.”

“Violence?” Schaffer frowns. “But what good could come of dispatching of me? I am not a wealthy man with any worldly goods worth claiming. And while this employment affords me a steady pay-check to support my wife and children with, the work itself is composed of long lonely hours interspersed with highly distressing bursts of activity. There are many opportunities in this city for a man to earn his way through life that do not involve regular absence from his wife’s side throughout the night.”

“It is what they mean to do on that specific night that concerns us,” Flynn informs him, twisting the truth to sound more believable. “We have reason to believe a group of individuals mean to start a fire within your district that night, and without you there to accurately report its location, the fire would spread uncontrollably before tackling it could even begin.”

“That does indeed sound troublesome,” Schaffer scowls. “But I am not the only fire watchman trained in this city. There are several men who could competently replace me, and they would be selected before any unknown hoping to do harm to property and lives.”

And then a shot rings out.

Flynn’s head jerks up, recognising the sound as one caused by a modern handgun or rifle rather than the colts common in the current age. The reverb echoes dully, clearly having come from outside.

“Uh-oh,” Rufus hisses, following closely behind Flynn as he turns and jogs for the building’s front doors. Lucy too, scrambles to keep up with his long strides despite her trailing skirts and impractical shoes.

On the steps of the building, they find a body surrounded by a growing pool of blood.

* * *

_Lucy, somehow, had already known about Jessica’s resurrection._

_The phone conversation that followed was still awkward as fuck. He’d been ready to finally start letting his guilt go, to set it aside and try and move on with his life. Move on with Lucy. Lucy who made him happy and filled him with pride and awe._

_But now…_

_Wyatt knows not to let opportunities pass on by now. He has no idea what to do with this one though._

* * *

“That’s William!” Schaffer calls out in alarm as Rufus watches Flynn cautiously scan the alarmed crowd and then place two fingers against the downed-man’s pulse point. “Mr Brown I mean. He works in the central telegraph office in the courthouse below me during the night shifts! I don’t understand why he’d be here!?”

“It wasn’t Schaffer Rittenhouse wanted to replace was it?” Rufus groans to Lucy as Flynn shakes his head in the universal signal of _sorry but this man is dead._

Lucy bites her lip, a guilty look flitting across her expression. 

“Schaffer made a mistake and called down the wrong district to Brown that night,” she groans in obvious self-condemnation. “But Schaffer corrected himself quickly after a second look. I’d completely forgotten. It was Brown who refused to pass on the corrected message, stating it would confuse the responding fire teams to hear two different codes and that they’d find the right area quickly anyway.”

“So the sleeper will be Brown’s replacement, not Schaffer’s,” Rufus groans. “And we have no idea who that replacement might be.”


	15. Chapter 15

_“What the heck is that?” Lucy chuckles as Rufus comes padding into the kitchen cradling something small and green._

_“It’s a succulent!” Rufus grins back at her. “Cactus-carl has a friend now.”_

_“Where on Earth did you get it from?” Lucy puzzles, watching as the engineer carefully slides it onto the shelf above the microwave next to its bigger, spikier cousin._

_“Bandit,” Rufus shrugs. It takes Lucy a moment to realise he means Flynn, and when she does, she feels her eyebrows raise. “Apparently it’s a sorry-succulent. For the whole Al Capone mess you know?”_

_“Oookay?” Lucy draws out, glancing at the tiny plant in confusion again._

* * *

Flynn is hyperconscious that any moment now, police officers are going to appear and start asking a great many questions that he’d rather not have to try and answer. He could probably spin the rich industrialist looking to expand to this city tale again, but its success is dependant on Schaffer keeping his mouth shut about what they’d told him only minutes before.

Flynn would rather not take that risk.

“Come on, we should clear off,” he whispers to Lucy as he steps back over to her and Rufus. Schaffer still looks shell-shocked, staring at his colleague from a few steps above them. “I’m pretty sure Chicago has a homicide detective division now, and we don’t want to tangle with them if we can avoid it.”

“You’re right,” Lucy murmurs back. “Established in 1860. They’ve had a few years to get into the swing of it now and they’re not afraid to use threats and violence to get want they want. Plus the whole of Chicago PD has a huge corruption issue this decade thanks to the new commissioner system.”

“Schaffer,” Flynn calls over his shoulder, bearing Lucy’s words in mind. “Tell the uniformed police what you know of this man; we’re going to the City Hall to update the mayor and commissioners. You should then proceed about your day as normal as it seems you were not the target after all, but do watch your back just in case.”

Schaffer somehow manages to become even paler as he nods his agreement, the fire chief stepping behind him and clapping him on the shoulder. Flynn nods back once, and then offers his arm to Lucy, Rufus once again falling into step behind them. 

“We’re not actually going to the City Hall, are we?” Rufus mutters a minute later as they weave through the crowd against the flow, most of whom are intent on going to get a good look at the body lying before the fire station. 

“No,” Flynn shakes his head. “I just said that to keep suspicion off us, make us sound like ah, officials. Rittenhouse probably don’t know that _we_ know about Brown’s death, so we should keep them believing we’re ignorant and lay low. Besides, it is less than hour until full dark; we should acquire you two some supper and then retire for the night. Our body clocks are four hours ahead of local time don’t forget.”

“We should acquire all _three_ of us some supper,” Lucy corrects him with a pointed stare. 

“I’m not hungry,” Flynn grumbles, even though he knows the Lucy won’t give a damn and will make him eat something anyway.

“Tough shit,” she grins evilly at him, just as expected. “Come on, I saw a sweet pastry bakery near the Riverwalk. We’re going to have to cross over one of the north branch bridges anyway, so it’s only a little out of our way.”

“I suppose I’ll choke something down if it’s um, sugary,” he sighs with a tired smile.

* * *

Munching on an almond slice and holding a bag of other assorted sweet treats in his other hand, Flynn has to concede that Lucy’s idea was a good one. They had arrived at the bakery only minutes before the proprietor had planned to shut-up shop for the night, but his grumblings had ceased upon seeing the size of Flynn’s coin purse. 

Given that it was a rather up-market establishment catering to the city’s wealthiest citizens, Flynn had managed to pick out quite the interesting selection for himself. 

Lucy and Rufus had chosen their own more savoury selections, and they’re now walking back towards their boarding house in the twilight, the city quieting around them.

With the sun dropped below the horizon, the sky has become a riot of rich reds, pinks and purples that even Flynn finds himself staring up at in appreciation. With Lucy’s arm brushing against his and Rufus a solid wall of security at his back, he feels oddly calm and at peace. He knows the feeling won’t last, but right now he finds he doesn’t care. 

He takes another bite and smiles.

* * *

“Pretty sure we payed for two full rooms,” Rufus grumbles as they peer around at the furnishings. “This is one almost-room and a storage closet containing a cot that’s barely raised off the floor.”

“It’s actually really clean and well-kept for this era though,” Lucy chuckles. “And the owner must have assumed that the second room was intended to be servant’s quarters. Just be glad she didn’t presume you would be sleeping in the stables.”

“Being a black man in history is so much fun,” Rufus sighs. “So who’s sleeping where?”

“You two should share,” Lucy immediately says, indicating the four-poster double bed covered in red patchwork quilts and clean white sheets. “I’m the smallest, I’ll fit on the cot best.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Flynn swiftly protests. “If anyone should take the single, it should be me.”

“You’re the tallest and need the most rest!” Lucy objects sternly. 

“He just doesn’t want to share a bed with me,” Rufus snorts with good humour. “Which is fair; I’m afraid of Jiya’s playful ridiculing too. In fact, she’s probably already writing some slutty slash fic based on us.”

“You know I’d sleep with you in a heartbeat buddy,” Flynn jokingly leers at Rufus, deliberately flicking his eyes up and down the other man. “But that’s not the point. Lucy shouldn’t have to take the cot.”

“The tall man is correct,” Rufus nods earnestly despite Lucy still making noises of disagreement. “Listen to the tall man Lucy.”

“Chivalry is not a more valid reason than practicality!” she tries again, starting to impatiently tug at the ribbons in her hair. 

“Correct!” Rufus grins. “Which is why I will see you two in the morning! He’s too tall and you’re claustrophobic. Good night!”

And with that he walks into the adjacent cupboard room and closes the door on them. Flynn stands in the middle of the floor with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. 

“Idiot stubborn men,” Lucy growls, throwing a handful of hair pins onto the narrow sideboard with unrestrained irritation.

* * *

Flynn daren’t move. 

The candles have all been blown out, the window shuttered and locked. Lucy, not nearly as naive as past-Flynn had mistakenly believed her to be, had shoved the sole chair in the room under the door handle before climbing into the bed, and now they’re lying there, side by side.

_Five feet apart because we’re not gay_ Flynn thinks nonsensically. Stiv had shown him that vine only four days before he’d died onboard the Hindenburg.

God, he misses Stiv.

“You’re stiff as a board,” Lucy grunts at him, obviously most of the way to sleep already. “Relax.”

Flynn huffs a quiet laugh but stays exactly where he is. She’s just _so close._

“I mean it Bandit,” she grumbles, using Rufus’ increasingly affectionate nickname for him. “Or I will smother you into submission. It’s like being in bed with a cold steel beam.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, shuffling a little bit but still lying on his back, slightly at an angle so his feet don’t hang off the end of the bed. 

“I know you’re a side sleeper, you great stubborn loon,” she growls at him, waking up some more. “Roll over and get comfortable.”

Sighing in an openly aggrieved manner, he does so, ending up facing Lucy, her hair slightly haloed around her. She’s difficult to see in the extremely low light, but he can just about make out her smirk.

“Happy now?” he grumbles, pulling the covers up over his shoulder and splaying his other hand slightly out towards her. He can _feel_ the heat she’s radiating through her shift and the baggy pants she stole from Flynn as soon as he took them off. 

Flynn himself is stripped down to his modern boxers and the white undershirt he’d kept on under his period appropriate attire. Because of her proximity, he feels little better than naked despite being decently covered.

“A slight improvement, I’ll give you that,” she laughs quietly at him. 

“I haven’t… I haven’t shared a bed with anyone since Lorena,” he mutters mostly to himself. “Not deliberately anyway,” he adds, thinking of the few times in the past few weeks that the various bunker inhabitants have tricked him into dozing off while sat next to him. 

“She’d be proud of you, you know?” Lucy tells him after a moment as she shuffles slightly closer. The tips of Flynn’s fingers brush against her as a consequence, and he shivers with repressed longing.

“No she wouldn’t,” he breathes back truthfully. “But,” he adds quickly when he senses Lucy’s deep frown, “she’d be happy for the man I’m trying to become now. I can’t take back all the awful things I did trying to save her and Iris. But I can be a better person for them. She’d be proud of that.”

“You’re a good man,” Lucy smiles. “Only a good man would want to be better and actually put the effort in to achieve that goal.”

And then she reaches out and takes his hand.

And Flynn closes his eyes and smiles weakly back.

* * *

The air he’s breathing is hot and humid and he’s curled up with his head pressed against something warm and soft.

He hasn’t felt so comfortable and safe for _years._

Mumbling, he straightens his legs slightly, feeling his foot slowly drag down what he supposes is a leg. There’s a pair of arms wrapped around his head, and as he shifts, he hears a soft sleepy laugh and then an amused good morning.

The covers over his head are flipped off him as one of the arms cradling him moves, and thin watery daylight spreads over him.

He blinks tiredly.

Lucy is grinning down at him, a soft look in her eyes.

“O moj Bože, žao mi je,” he mumbles, cheeks burning as he slides away from her. “Nisam-” he starts before his sleepy mind catches up and he corrects himself into English. “I didn’t mean to invade your personal space.”

“You’re a cuddly one, I’ll grant you that,” she teases, seemingly unbothered by his unasked-for proximity. She stretches with a satisfied groan once he’s disentangled himself and flopped back onto his own pillow, and he takes a moment to be thankful that _all_ of him is relaxed.

_Bogovi,_ that would have been embarrassing.

“I really am sorry,” he mumbles, pawing at his gritty eyes.

“Hey, it’s alright,” she tells him gently. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it and I really don’t mind. Without putting a too fine a point on it, we all know you’re _incredibly_ touch starved. Besides, you kept me warm in the chill of the night.”

Words fail him again as he also stretches, his creaky shoulder cracking satisfactorily. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to way the bunker team talk about his and each other’s mental health openly instead of denying it even exists as a concept. That just not the way militaries operate, and thus not something he’s ever encountered before.

“Can I borrow your watch?” she asks him once he’s settled onto his back with a wide yawn. “Not that you should have brought it with you, but whatever.”

“It’s only 65 years too futuristic,” he smirks as he reaches sideways and pats around on the sole bedside table. His hand slides over the Beretta he left there (the other is under his pillow), but he ignores it in favour of grasping the leather strap he can feel beyond it. “I used to wear my smartwatch everywhere before Homeland confiscated it.”

“I know,” Lucy glowers at him, taking the timepiece from him and then squinting at its face. “Used to drive me mad seeing something so anachronistic. A damn apple watch in the 1770s, honestly.”

“You loved it,” Flynn grins in a gravelly voice, not trying at all to soften his accent. 

“I really didn’t,” she huffs, smiling at him as she hands him back his less offensive but still clearly irritating watch. “But I had more important things to worry about like preventing you from trying to kill Wyatt every other week or so.”

Flynn checks the time himself. Quarter past seven, if he did indeed set it right when they arrived.

“Wyatt was very irritating,” he jokes. “He shot me in the shoulder first time we met and things didn’t really improve from there.”

“In all fairness, you had just exploded the Hindenburg and were trying to use me as a human shield.”

Despite the cold rush of guilt he suddenly feels, he makes himself chuckle anyway. The quiet laugh is less genuine sounding than he was hoping for, but it’ll do.

“You all got over it,” he tries weakly, purposefully not looking anywhere but straight at the ceiling. “Besides, I genuinely thought you’d actually be safe that first night and then he pulled the trigger anyway. That’s a lot of the reason why I was openly distrustful of him from then on.”

“Stop worrying about it,” Lucy scolds lightly, thwacking him with the back of his hand. “You were literally doing what I told you to, and it turns out you were the one in the right all along.”

“Not always,” he muses, thinking of young John Rittenhouse. “I’m glad I wasn’t always right.”

“Well we’re here now, and we’re all the same page,” Lucy tells him, her soft tone returning. “And we get it, we really do. All of us. So let your guilt go.”

“I’ll try to,” he promises, tilting his head to meet her eyes again.

* * *

Redressed and washed up as best they can from a basin of cold water with no soap, the three of them stumble out of the boarding housing into the bright morning sunshine. The air is still dry enough to practically crackle despite the proximity to the great lake, the lack of rain for months taking its toll on the environment. 

Flynn can practically feel the threat of wildfire and there’s not even a hint of smoke or spark yet.

“Where to?” Rufus yawns, lifting his top slightly hat to scratch his head along the line where the brim sits. 

“Breakfast,” Lucy insists firmly. “And then we can try to snoop around the courthouse and find out who’s replacing the late Mr Brown tonight and tomorrow.”

“That stall is selling what looks suspiciously like primitive hot meat hoagies,” Flynn points out. “Quite a line of rich people waiting at it too, which probably means they’re worth the money.”

“You gonna manage one of those okay?” Lucy asks him as Rufus lights up in delight and stares eagerly down the street.

“Well if I don’t manage to finish mine, I’m sure Rufus will eat the rest for me,” he states dryly, eyeing the other man sideways. 

“I haven’t had a decent sub-sandwich in _months_ man,” Rufus groans in delight as they stroll over. “Oh god, they have melted cheese on them; I’m in heaven!”

* * *

The rest of the morning is thoroughly unproductive. 

Flynn, with Lucy’s help, manages to sweet talk his way into the telegraph office in the courthouse, but the only people on duty at the wires are quickly ruled out as potential sleepers; they’re both too young to have been living in the past for any length of time, unless Rittenhouse has taken to embedding actual children and teenagers throughout history.

(Flynn privately thinks they’re depraved enough to do exactly that, but he agrees with Lucy in this instance; these two boys are not the agents.)

There’s an older manager on duty in the room next door who raises Flynn’s hackles for a few moments, but then he chooses to ignore Flynn almost completely in favour of showering Rufus with an abundance of praise and asking him a billion questions about his “stellar work as a freeman, wasn’t Lincoln wonderful with his vision of a united peoples?”. Either the guy is an _exceptionally_ good actor, or he really is the liberal-loving proto-feminist he comes across as. 

Probably the latter, given the way he almost falls over his feet to please Lucy too when she starts asking questions about shift rotas and personnel. Not likely to be Rittenhouse at any rate.

This does not change the fact that the courthouse is a dead end for them.

* * *

They double back to the planing mill again after lunch for another snoop around, and the boiler still remains unfixed. Flynn actually goes inside the building this time, leaving Lucy with Rufus in a tiny book shop on the next street over, but he still can’t spot anything out of place, and none of the workers shoot him suspicious looks or dart away in panic.

If it wasn’t for the surprise murder of William Brown yesterday evening, Flynn would be starting to doubt that preventing The Great Chicago fire was Rittenhouse’s plan after all. 

“Maybe we’re just thinking too complex,” Lucy ponders once he re-joins them in the bookstore. Rufus has acquired an embroidered leather satchel from somewhere, and he’s dutifully paying the clerk for the books Lucy has selected; primarily novels, he notes with some surprise. “So far none of Rittenhouse’s sleeper plans have been as convoluted as most of your escapades. Even their Hollywoodland scheme was just a straight heist of the Citizen Kane film reels. Maybe Rittenhouse will go straight for the main blaze and ignore the smaller one tonight.”

“It’s possible I suppose,” Flynn considers. “They might have jumped to yesterday purely because they knew where Brown was going to be in order to gun him down.”

“But _how_ would they have known that?” Lucy complains in annoyance as they step back out onto the street.

“Murder! Murder again on Madison street!” A young boy calls out, wearing a painted sandwich board and clanging a hand bell as he walks. “Read all about the second firehouse murder in tonight’s Chicago Local Times!”

“Aw fuck,” Rufus deadpans eloquently.

* * *

By the time they make it to Schaffer’s fire department, the body has already been removed from the street. 

The fire chief recognises them from the previous day though and waves them inside the building with a weary look.

“Damn shame, what’s happened here,” he shakes his head, escorting them into his office. “Police already came and asked their questions, but it’s too late for poor Matthias now. At least you good folks tried to warn him he was in some danger.”

“We’re terribly sorry for thinking the risk to his life had passed,” Lucy apologises softly. 

“No way you could have known, and as I said, least he died knowing we were all looking out for him. Poor sod, his wife’s going to be beside herself when we track her down.”

“I know it might seem insensitive to ask so quickly,” Flynn hesitates, “but who’s going to replace Schaffer as watchman?”

“No offense taken,” the chief grunts. “It’s a valid concern given the number of fires this damnable drought is causing. And Matthias mentioned you was concerned about some arson happening while he was s’posed to be on duty. As for who’ll take over, probably young Richardson; he’s newly trained and mostly just been sharing shifts with the more experienced lads until now.”

“Any idea where we can find him to have a word?”

“Sure,” the chief nods, surprising Flynn. “He’s staying in the fire bunkhouse over on 4th of Van Burton street. Came out of a workhouse before that. Dunno how he was noticed, but he’s a dab hand at mental math so he was recruited to work the spyglasses for us. Can work out all the angles of spread in his head and all that. Dead useful at times.”

“Interesting indeed,” Flynn considers, thanking the man for his time.

* * *

_Lucy yawns as she steps into the kitchen area and powers the coffee machine up. At some point during the night, it’s gone into sleep mode, so she has to clear off all the menu alerts before it will let her fill the grounds tray up and set the water to heating._

_Absentmindedly putting the lid back on Connor’s tea tin (why is it even open?), she rubs at her eyes and looks around at the depressing walls of the bunker. The ubiquitous army-green paint peeling off the concrete beneath is stained with rust in many places, and here and there are dark watermark stains from years of the place sitting empty and unheated._

_The coffee machine beeps next to her, and she slides her mug under the nozzles as directed. While it fills, she glances over to the reason they’re all down here._

_The Lifeboat. In all its miserable grey glory. A great metallic orb on tripod legs, various wires trailing from its underside._

_And then she blinks in surprise._

_Because sat upright, his face mashed against the railings and clearly fast asleep on the steps, is Flynn. Drooling on himself, and quiet frankly, looking utterly adorable._

__Oh, _Lucy thinks quietly to herself._

_Oh indeed._

* * *

“Richardson is the sleeper, isn’t he,” Rufus pulls a face as they cross back over the river again. “Bet he was trained with 21st century simulations or some crap before they ditched him back here. Maybe has a solar Casio calculator in his pocket to help him out.”

“Probably,” Lucy agrees with a tired sigh. “Though we shouldn’t assume he’s the only one. I wouldn’t put it past my mother to be skulking around somewhere still. Or Emma.”

“Oh Emma’s here alright,” Rufus hisses, spotting the lethal redhead several doors further down the street than them. By some miracle, her back is to them but speak of the devil indeed.

In front of him, Flynn swears up a storm in some foreign language and hastily shoves them all into the nearest alleyway out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little. Spoon.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garcia "emotionally inconsistent" Flynn.  
> Yepp, bout sums it up.

Flynn slides one of his guns quietly into his hand, double checking the slide, hammer, and safety as he does so. 

Behind him, Rufus glances round and then picks up a small rock, holding it in what he probably thinks is a threatening manner.

“I’m training you all how to handle firearms when we return to 2017,” Flynn grumbles as he slinks back to the alley entrance. Handing Lucy his top hat quickly, he peers round the corner cautiously, taking in the full street in just a couple of seconds.

“She’s about 100 metres along the boardwalk still, talking to some skinny guy,” he reports once he’s quickly flipped back into cover. 

“That’s about 330 feet,” Rufus quips, sideling up closer to Flynn but not trying to look around him. 

“I do know how the metric system works,” Lucy retorts drolly. “The other man is possibly my great grandfather, Nicholas. Or maybe just some local she’s schmoozing up to.”

“Do I put a bullet in her back now or do we follow her first?” Flynn asks, chancing another quick glance. “No sign of your mother.”

“Here, let me have a look,” Lucy requests, moving to take Flynn’s place right at the end of the alleyway. She imitates Flynn, pressing her back against the wall, and then darting her head out for a quick look before pulling herself back just as fast. “That’s not Nicholas,” she shakes her head a second later. “Could be Richardson?”

“Um guys,” Rufus strains, donning an awkward smile and staring across the street. “There’s a group of men and a police officer directly across the road watching at us like we’ve gone insane.”

Flynn whips his head round and spots them too, copying Rufus and grinning in a strained manner at the incredulous group. Rufus gives them an awkward little wave then, which is apparently enough to spur the police officer into motion and start marching towards them with a thunderous expression. 

“Ah fuck,” Rufus grits between his teeth, dropping his rock.

Flynn hastily shoves his gun back into his holster under his coat too. 

“What is the meaning of this?” the officer demands as soon as he’s stepped onto the wooden sidewalk on their side of the street. “Loitering in the shadows and behaving like common thieves despite the manner of your dress.”

“We intend no harm,” Lucy swiftly steps in, retreating slightly backwards so the man automatically steps into the mouth of the alley after her (conveniently removing him Emma’s line of sight, Flynn notes. Good job Lucy). “I simply asked my husband if we could avoid an encounter with another Lady that is currently placed further up the street, and obliging man that he is, he indulged me. She and I have some past grievances you see, but I will spare you from listening to the banal details of women’s affairs and not afflict you with a recounting of them.”

“You are a kind man to indulge your wife’s whims so,” the officer turns to speak to Flynn. “But I advise you to avoid snooping so obviously in the future. While I now see that this was but an innocent act on your part good sir, it does not look so to those observing you. I suggest you step back into the main thoroughfare and be on your way.”

“We’ll do so,” Flynn answers simply, claiming his hat back from Lucy and then tipping it politely.

The officer repeats the gesture and they all wait tensely until he has walked out of sight.

“Damn, I hate cops,” Rufus sighs, his shoulder drooping with relief. “Emma still there?”

“No,” Flynn growls once he’s checked in a more casual manner that before. “And the other guy is gone too.”

“Come on, we might be able to catch up to them,” Lucy straightens her shoulders, reaching out to clasp Flynn’s hand again. “I want to know what she’s up to.”

* * *

But an hour and almost two miles of walking later, they haven’t managed to find the Rittenhouse pilot anywhere. She might as well have vanished in a puff of smoke for all the ideas they have.

And when they give it up as a hopeless waste of time and proceed to Van Burton street, the quartermaster there then informs them that Gerald Richardson has already left the bunkhouse to attend his affairs for the day and likely won’t return until the following morning. 

Flynn feels his patience slipping and his need to commit some violence growing.

“Okay we need a break,” Lucy insists as Flynn stalks up and down the boardwalk angrily, glaring at anyone who so much as looks at him. He’s frustrated enough that for once, he doesn’t give two damns about the clear sky and crowds of people around him.

“Yeah, a break in this damn case,” he snarls. “Two days of aimless wandering and all we have to show for it are two dead bodies!”

“Flynn,” Lucy tells him calmly, one hand coming to rest flat on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. “We know who the main sleeper probably is, we know that Emma is in town, we know what their targets are likely to be, and we have a good idea of how their plan will probably play out. We’re not operating blind here. And you heard that Quartermaster; word has already gotten round that we tried to protect Schaffer, so the Fire department are on our side.”

Flynn forces himself to slump slightly, letting out a long breath. He knows rationally that Lucy is right, but his emotions are still running hot and all he can think is _what a giant waste of space I’ve been on this trip._

“Fine,” he grunts eventually, checking his watch. “We should take five to restock seeing as it’s coming up 6pm anyway.”

“Let’s grab a bite to eat,” she soothes him, her hands running down over his lapels. “That’ll stop Rufus’ stomach from rumbling like a runaway freight train, and then we can go stake out the planing mill to make sure the fire starts at about 10pm.”

“We got you brother,” Rufus nods, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. “You tell us if you feel like you’re spiralling yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah I suppose,” Flynn nods with a bitter twist of his lips. “I’ll try.”

* * *

He keeps a tighter rein on it, but his mood does not particularly improve. 

He’s careful not to take it out on Lucy or Rufus, but he can feel them side-eying him with concern anyway, and Rufus has to smooth over some ruffled feathers by greasing some palms when he slips and snaps at the wrong person once. Neither of them call him out on his less than stellar behaviour though for which he’s grateful. They just carry on talking to him as if nothing at all is awry. 

Still, they make it to the district containing the mill by 9pm, and with a little bit of lockpicking and a quick scramble over a ledge, they manage to climb onto the roof of a building that provides them a reasonable view of the block and surrounding city. 

“We’re just going to watch for the flames to start and then clear out,” Lucy informs them. “If everything proceeds as it should, then the fire teams will contain it to four square blocks and have it out by noon tomorrow, but we shouldn’t hang about in case something has changed.”

The building they’re on top of is a mixture of stone and wooden beams. The roof is sharply sloped, but there’s a flat section surrounded by a low wall on the eastern side. It’s clearly not designed to be accessed, but it provides a good place for them to perch out of sight of the streets below.

Throwing his legs over the wall and sitting down, Flynn lets out another deep breath and tries to ignore the uneasy feeling growing in his chest. Lucy joins him a second later, Rufus helping her to arrange the bulk of her skirts. She scoots sideways until they’re pressed arm to arm, and then fumbles about for his hand, clasping it and drawing it atop her knee.

Rufus lets out a slightly hysterical chuckle behind them, and then audibly breathes _oh what the hell._ Next thing Flynn knows, he’s been bracketed, a close, warm body on both sides.

He smiles abashed.

And then taking off his top hat with his free hand, he settles in to wait.

* * *

“Five past ten,” Flynn reads off before Lucy can do more than open her mouth to ask again. 

So far, they’ve seen nothing.

“Well, the history books do only say _about_ ten o’clock,” she huffs, clearly annoyed. 

“We could always go start the fire ourselves if nothing happens by eleven?” Rufus suggests.

“Let’s save arson as a backup for tomorrow,” she sighs. “God, I can’t believe I just said that.”

“I can,” Rufus chuckles ruefully. “I mean, we already shoot people, shop lift, pick pocket, break and enter, start riots and revolutions, break people out of supermax, and befriend known terrorists. Did I miss anything?”

“Pretty sure we’ve committed treason twice by my count too,” Lucy chuckles.

Flynn is too busy being floored to add his own comments. They honestly think of him as a _friend!?_

“Kidnapping!” Rufus laughs. “We’ve done that. Lying to various forms of law enforcement– done that one a lot recently. Hmmm, what else?”

They actually _like_ him!?

“Does stealing off of washing lines have a particular name?” Lucy asks. “Or is it just classed as a type of larce-? Guys! Guys!” she suddenly calls out, her finger pointing slightly to the north east. “I see flames!”

Flynn shakes his head with a jolt, eyes snapping up to the skyline. Right where they were expecting, a small blaze is lighting up the night sky. 

“I’m aware this is morbid, but thank the lord,” Rufus sighs in relief. 

Seriously? They want him as a _friend!?_

“Should we um, stick around to watch it spread a bit or head back now?” Flynn asks, his voice gravelly and emotional. 

Lucy glances up at him with a small frown, probably concerned about his tone.

“You alright?” she asks him, her hand squeezing his tighter for a second.

“I’m fine,” he smiles weakly. “Just… today has been a little emotionally overwhelming,” he shrugs, choosing to misdirect rather than lie outright. Today _has_ been overwhelming for him, but that’s not all that’s on his mind. Who the fuck willingly befriends a terrorist!?

“Amen to that,” Rufus snorts, swinging his legs back over the wall onto the rooftop.

“Okay,” Lucy says softly. “Let’s give it 10 minutes to make sure the first block is actually going to light up properly, and then we’ll call it a night.”

“Amen to that too,” Rufus yawns with a stretch.

* * *

By the time they’ve trooped through the dark streets back to their lodgings, the city warning bells have been tolling for an hour none stop. Flynn scrambled up a taller building about halfway back to check the progress of the flames, and quickly determines that it’s proceeding in a historically accurate manner. Or appears to be at any rate.

They should have nothing to worry about, meaning they can get in another decent nights sleep.

“Oh modern plumbing, how I crave thee,” Rufus moans as they stomp into their small room. The bed has been turned down with fresh sheets since this morning but looks otherwise undisturbed. Not that they left anything in here, but it’s reassuring anyway.

“You can have the washbowl first,” Lucy teases Rufus. “My treat.”

“I’m going to start bringing toothpaste with me,” the engineer grumbles good-naturedly as he unbuttons his jacket and loosens his ascot tie before pulling the length of embroidered silk from around his neck completely. “And a modern toothbrush.”

“We could put a washbag in the Lifeboat?” Flynn suggests as he starts stripping off himself. “We wouldn’t be able to fetch it every time we have to rough it in the past overnight, but it might come in handy at least occasionally.”

“More suggestions like that please,” Rufus point at him with a smirk. “That’s what we call useful intel.”

“I live to serve,” Flynn winks back.

* * *

_Her own mother… Her own mother accused her of witchcraft and is apparently happy to let her hang in 1692. To become nothing more than another nameless woman in the footnote of history. And now she’s stuck in a lonely cell, without even Rufus by her side for support._

_And by Lincoln… The look in Flynn’s eyes as he’d bolted from the tavern. Lucy knows panic, knows fear. She lived it every day for four and a half months. She lives it most days now too. But Flynn…_

_The man needs some serious help and there’s no one to give it to him except their little rag tag team. She has to survive this damn farce of a trial and execution simply so she can find him and start giving it to him. She’s getting out. She’s getting herself and Rufus out of this mess and then she’s going to find Flynn and then haul that poor man’s mental health out of the gutter even if she has to do it alone with nought but pure stubborn willpower._

_She won’t let Rittenhouse destroy him this way too._

* * *

Flynn wakes with a gasp.

The air feels hot and _something is wrong._

“Lucy,” he coughs, immediately clutching her and shaking. He’s rolled over in the night to sleep curled against her again, so he doesn’t have to reach out to get to her. “Lucy!” he calls again, louder and with more urgency.

The room is filling with smoke.

“Hmm what’s up babe,” she mumbles back, the smile on her lips showing that’s she still asleep.

“Lucy!” he yells, scrambling out of the bed and pulling her with him. 

“What’s going-? Oh my god!”

In an instant she’s wide awake. Flynn is already grabbing at her clothes, left draped over the sideboard with his and Rufus’ jackets. 

“Get dressed, I’ll get Rufus up,” he commands curtly, yanking on his shirt and holsters as he practically throws himself at the interconnecting door. 

“This isn’t supposed to happen!” he hears her yell as he forgoes all decorum and simply grabs Rufus’ sleeping shoulders and hauls him upright. 

“I’d gathered!” Flynn calls back, avoiding Rufus’ panicked flailing and setting him straight on his feet. “Rufus the city’s on fire!” he hollers at the other man, watching with relief as alertness snaps suddenly into his eyes.

“Oh my god!” Rufus yells through the thickening smoke, quickly sliding out of Flynn’s arms to grab at his pants. 

In under a minute, Flynn has scrambled his own shirt buttons up, grabbed his pants back from Lucy, shoved his feet into his stolen boots, and helped her haul her dress on over her shift. They leave her stays and bustle where they lie; the bare minimum for decency and safety is their only consideration right now. 

Rufus had darted out into the corridor as soon as he’d gotten his arms into his shirt and jacket sleeves, chest still bare. As Flynn and Lucy scramble for the stairs themselves, they can hear him on the next floor down banging on everyone’s doors and shouting at the top of his lungs.

“Rufus!” Flynn bellows as the clatter down towards the ground floor. “Rufus come on!”

They spill out onto the street as a trio, the other guests of the boarding house beginning to stumble after them in just as much panic. The flames are reaching high above the city all around them, the strong night winds billowing hot ash and sparks down upon them. 

“We have to move!” Flynn yells over the increasingly loud din of people screaming and running. 

“Why are the bells not tolling!” Lucy yells back as they all grab each other hands and begin hurrying west towards the prairie. “They’re supposed to be ringing the bells!”

“Don’t know, don’t care!” Flynn calls back, weaving around two men dragging a cart laden with wooden furniture. “We’ll worry about that when we can breathe clean cool air!”

Because the main body of the fire is _a lot_ closer than Flynn is even remotely comfortable with. Whatever the fuck Rittenhouse have done, they’ve done it well. It’s not even one in the morning yet. So he keeps his hand wrapped around Lucy’s, make’s sure Lucy has hold of Rufus’. 

And he _runs._

* * *

“Holy shit!” Rufus gasps when they jog out onto the riverside path. The crowds are bottlenecking at the bridges, and the buildings on the other side of the water are clearly also starting to catch fire.

“Don’t let go!” Flynn shouts, pulling one gun out of his holster and sliding his other hand up to grip Lucy’s wrist. She grasps his wrist back, and he immediately starts to shoulder his way towards the nearest wooden crossing, using his superior height and strength to more or less bulldoze his way through people. 

Lucy presses up against his back as they step onto the first plank over the water, Rufus crowding up to him too so that they’re shielding her from both the searing embers beginning to rain down on them, and the mad rush of people as they try to surge forward in panic. Flynn is careful to keep them away from the sides of the bridge, as he can hear screaming and splashing as people are knocked over the side or simply choose to jump into the water.

It’s utter chaos. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” he can hear Rufus chanting in his ear. But he doesn’t stop following Flynn, doesn’t move his second hand off of Flynn’s shoulder.

Someone slams into the side of them as they reach the end of the narrow walkway, and all three of them stagger sideways, careening into yet more people. Flynn falls to one knee, Lucy’s weight baring down on him uncontrollably for a second. His knuckles slam onto the ground as he panics and tries to steady them, his hand tight around the grip of the pistol he refuses to let go of. 

“I got you!” he hears Rufus yell, and then there’s a hand under his armpit pulling him up and up. He goes with the movement, his knees buckling and his ears ringing. 

There’s too many people-

There’s too many people-!

There’s too-!

* * *

He’s at the back of the line, Rufus clinging onto his arm for dear life as he’s pulled forward.

He’s panting so harshly he can barely hear anything else. 

“Rufus,” he tries to croak as he puts one foot in front of the other automatically. “Rufus!”

“I got you Bandit, I got you,” Rufus chants back at him. “Keep coming man, that’s it.”

“Rufus!” he sobs as the city burns around them.

* * *

The grass has been trampled into sooty dust as they stagger up the hill, Lucy in front guiding him and Rufus onwards. 

People stream around them, more spread out now that they’re no longer trapped between burning buildings. Policemen with whistles are trying in vain to guide the crowds all in one direction, calling out instructions as rich and poor alike flee the utter devastation on foot. 

The majority of the city bells have still not begun tolling. 

Flynn feels numb from head to toe except for the hot brand where Rufus’ hand is around his arm. 

They got it so completely wrong. Rittenhouse didn’t want to prevent the Chicago Fires, they wanted to raze the _entire_ city to the ground. Destruction on a level never before seen by the people of this age. They only way Rittenhouse could worsen this tragedy now would be to salt the remains and ensure no one can ever come back.

They stumble on.

* * *

“Okay, okay this is our barrel,” Lucy shakes, pulling the two of them up against the side of the barn from two days previous. He’s distantly aware the Rufus has pulled him round to lean against the wall and let him slide down to sit on the floor.

Either side of them, more people are collapsing in exhaustion. 

“What do we do now?” Rufus croaks as he wonderfully, blissfully crowds himself around Flynn and pulls his head down against him. With his face buried against the other man’s chest and his sight blocked out and hearing muffled, Flynn manages to gulp down some steadier breathes, his hand finally slackening from around his pistol. 

“Nothing we can do laddie,” someone with a thick accent of some variety says from nearby. “Nothing but wait.”

“What happened to the fire warning system?” he hears Lucy ask as he feels her arms wrap around him from one side too. The familiar scent of her hair fills his nostrils, welcome despite the overwhelming stench of burning saturating all their clothing. 

“Aye, what indeed?” the unknown man sighs tiredly. “I heard the warnings for the blaze in the red flash district – apparently that started in some saw mill – but nothing for this- this _hellscape._ Until I heard some brave lads decide to take matters into their own hands and organise climbing some church bell towers, there was nae a single ring to be heard all across the city. It’s as if every single watchman in the city was sleeping by midnight.”

“Or dead,” Lucy mutters. “It’s like every fire watchman was dead by midnight.”

* * *

_“Okay,” Rufus grimaces tiredly once he’s double checked Wyatt’s stitching on her arm. “So panic attacks are something he’s apparently prone to now.”_

_“How bad?” Wyatt asks quietly, staring down the corridor towards the closed bathroom door, behind which the man in question is showering._

_“Oh pretty bad,” Rufus admits with wide eyes._

_“Agoraphobia,” Lucy tells them both quietly. “Fear of wide-open spaces.”_

_“Manageable?” Wyatt enquires with another worried glance down the hall._

_“Well he ran off in blind panic when he got unexpectedly surrounded, but he really came through for us in the end,” Lucy offers. “He went well out of his way to make sure both of us were alright, and once he pulled himself together, he was ruthlessly effective as well as considerate and helpful.”_

_“Okay,” Wyatt nods tiredly. “Okay, we can work with that.”_

* * *

The morning dawns bright and clear and Rufus hates it with a passion. 

Flynn is out cold in his arms, having worn himself out with his uncontrolled panic. Rufus himself hasn’t slept a wink.

Neither has Lucy and now she’s gone looking for food and information. He sits in silence and waits for her to return.

Smoke is still wafting in great tendrils up into the sky, and the roar of the blaze is louder than ever as more and more of Chicago is hungrily consumed by it. The air is laden with soot and ash, blown uphill by the onshore breeze billowing off the lake, and all around them people sit in a mixture of stunned silence and groups of quiet weeping.

“Hey, how is he?” Lucy asks as she reappears with a battered cup of water and a floury looking bread bun. The owner of the farmhouse they stole clothes from two days ago is now hauling up bucket after bucker of water from his well and offering it to anyone nearby. Rufus feels awful for the looting now.

“Dead to the world,” Rufus tells her through his exhaustion, accepting the cup and taking a sip. “Any news?”

“Matthias Schaffer and William Brown were just the start,” she shakes her head with pinched lips as she flips the lid off the barrel next to them and pulls their modern clothes out. “I found a police captain, wheedled what I could out of him. The army are coming with relief just as in the original timeline, but the death toll is already up in the thousands. Rittenhouse, they- it sounds like they systematically killed or replaced every watchman and telegram operator pair in the city not long after the mill went up. No one raised the alarm for the unexpected additional fires because anyone who would have done it was already dead. And with most the fire crews already out tackling the original Saturday night fire, there was barely anyone available to respond once word _did_ get out.”

“Jesus,” Rufus breathes, horrified. 

“Come on,” Lucy sighs after a long moment, tearing the bread into chunks. “Let’s try and wake Flynn up. We should eat and then go home.”

She pauses, staring blankly up at the pillars of smoke.

“There’s nothing left we can do here anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes?
> 
> [Let ‘em burn, burn, burn, burn, burn. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mPb2_glC8kA)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all it felt _so good_ to close all my Chicago fire chrome tabs asddsdffghghjhj

Flynn blinks.

* * *

Flynn blinks and-

* * *

Lucy is doing his seatbelt up, her mouth set in a deep grimace. Flynn tries to stir himself enough to help, but he’s pretty sure he’s being more hinderance than help. He can hear Rufus grumbling nearby and switches being flipped, and then he blinks and-

* * *

He blinks and they’re in the bunker.

He’s sat on the bottom of the lifeboat steps, legs sprawled out before him. His once-white shirt is black and grey with soot and ash, his face and hair so streaked and filthy that the bruises of his still-healing black eye and jaw are completely hidden. 

He’s so tired he’s not sure he’ll manage to stand back up unassisted.

Before him, Jiya is already patting an equally grimy Rufus down fitfully, not caring about the dirt smearing over her own hands and clothes. Agent Christopher is staring at them, her eyes wide, and Logan is stood just behind her, a disbelieving expression on his face.

“What the hell happened!?” Mason gasps as he finally steps down from the computer bank. This spurs Logan into action too, and he hurries forward, reaching Flynn just as Lucy sinks down to sit beside Flynn with dead eyes.

“What do we know about the Chicago great fire?” she asks dully, her head dropping to rest on Flynn’s stooped shoulders.

“Chicago? But you guys went to-?”

“We call it The Great Inferno. World’s worst arson attack,” Logan cuts Jiya off as he crouches down in front of the two of them, one hand resting on each of their knees. “Classified as an extreme act of terrorism. Death toll of approximately 3500, not including anyone who later suffered from smoke inhalation side effects. A genuine accident started one fire earlier in the night, but while the fire department were trying to contain it, five more fires started simultaneously all around the city.”

“No group ever stepped up to claim responsibility,” Agent Christopher takes over, striding over with two glasses of water. Mason darts back to the kitchen area to grab one for Rufus too. “But it was definitely a coordinated act of terrorism. All of the firemen who would have spotted the fires and sounded the alarm were murdered at their posts at or close to midnight. Or simply went missing. Without the city bells to wake everyone, many people died in their beds even once the panic and mass evacuation started.”

“The group responsible was Rittenhouse,” Flynn rasps, hands shaking so badly that Logan has to steady them for him so that he doesn’t tip his water all down his front. “Coordinated by Emma Whitmore. We were right in the middle of it, barely got out.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Rufus shudders. “What did they gain out making the fires worse? Did they still rebuild Chicago?”

“No.” Wyatt shakes his head with a confused expression. “I mean, there’s a new city 10 miles south of where central Chicago used to be, but it’s called Matthias. Fire department petitioned for the name with help from the worker’s unions. It’s a pretty legendary story, taught in most US High Schools, if not earlier.”

Flynn chokes out a harsh laugh, which quickly turns into a coughing fit. A real salt and burn then; Chicago wiped off the map.

“I need to check the rest of history to see what else has changed,” Lucy mumbles, still leaning on his arm despite his heaving shoulders and choked spluttering.

“I’ll pull Wikipedia up now,” Mason calls over, still hovering protectively over Rufus. “That’ll give you a place to start picking out timeline alterations.”

“Leave that; you should all shower and get some oxygen first,” Christopher shakes her head. “I think we’ve got some bronchodilators too that you can take.”

“I’ll shower while you guys hook Flynn and Rufus up to the oxygen tank,” Lucy grumbles, her eyes having slid shut. “They got the worst of it. And then someone should help Flynn shower and shave.”

Flynn is so knackered, he genuinely has no objections to that plan. Independent adult pride be damned.

* * *

“Here, easy does it,” Logan keeps up a quiet stream of words as he helps Flynn lower himself onto the stool that he’s stuck beneath the shower head. “Rufus you okay?”

“Thanks,” Flynn mumbles back as Rufus grunts an affirmative from next to them. The hot water raining down on his shoulders feels excellent, and he tentatively leans back and tips his head up so it streams into his hair and down over his face too. It stings a bit on the mild burn down his left cheek and the side of his neck, but the heat on his muscles is too good for him to be bothered.

“Alright I got lime burst shampoo, tea-tree shampoo, or some shower gel claiming to be power scented, whatever that means,” Logan smirks at him a few seconds later, holding up the bottles in question. “Pick your poison.”

“Oooo, make me fruity,” Flynn tries to smirk back, his heart not really in it. 

“Alright, shut your eyes and tip your head back down.”

Thankfully with both of them being military, they’re both completely used to complete lack of modesty in showers. Rufus is probably feeling a bit more self-conscious, but his desire to get clean faster seems to have won out over his desire for privacy while doing so. Flynn is therefore quite comfortable letting Logan soap is hair up while he sits there and idly sluices some of the muck off of his arms and shins. 

Before he knows it, the water running off him is clear and Logan is bundling him in towels, Rufus adding a comb to their shared hair trimmer across the room.

* * *

Feeling much improved but still sore, he manages to stumble to his room under his own steam (though Logan hovers protectively behind him the entire way). 

Already dressed in loose sweatpants and a thin t-shirt, he doesn’t bother trying to change into his actual pyjamas before collapsing onto his bed and gladly letting the darkness consume him.

* * *

He jerks and comes awake all at once when he feels movement beside him.

In an instant he’s sprung half upright and grabbed at the attacker.

Rolling and pinning them beneath him, he throws his arm out, shoving it under his pillow for the gun he always keeps there. His hand slides back and forth, feeling for it, feeling-

It’s not there!

His gun isn’t there!

The attacker squirms and bucks beneath him but he knows this; knows what happens when you let down your guard. You lose your _wife and your daughter._ So he abandons the hunt for his firearm, slamming his forearm under their chin, trying to crush downwards, trying to-

“Flynn!” Lucy shrieks, her eyes wide.

Flynn launches himself backwards and off of her in utter panic and mortification, scrambling away into the far corner, his back pressed against the wall and his filing cabinet dressers.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he pants, screwing his eyes shut and pulling his knees to his chest. “Fuck, fuck fuck, I’m sorry!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” she soothes after a couple of deep breathes, slowly sitting back up and then tentatively crawling towards him. “You didn’t hurt me, I’m okay. I’m sorry I startled you.”

“I thought- I thought-” He stammers, keeping his eyes shut, his head bowed down and turned away.  
_Jebeni pakao,_ what the _fuck_ is wrong with him!? What if he’d snapped her neck!? Or choked her out!? Or-

He doesn’t want to be back in _that_ place, where he can’t control himself and is a danger to those he cares about. 

“Flynn, look at me, I’m fine.”

Her hand gently settles on his knee. But she’s not fine, she’s not _safe_ near him! She’s-!

“Garcia, really. Look at me.”

At the use of his first name, his eyes finally jerk upwards.

“No one calls me that,” he croaks. “Not even me.”

“Do you not want me to?” she asks softly, moving closer until she’s sat beside him. Unable to resist the alure of physical contact, he drops his forehead onto her neck gratefully, not bothering to hide his shivering. He could have _killed her!_

“I don’t- I don’t know,” he mumbles truthfully. “Even- even in my own head I’m Flynn.”

“Well let’s not worry about that for now, okay? I’ll stick to Flynn now and we can discuss it later.”

“I’m sorry I attacked you,” he grunts shamefaced, his heart rate beginning to slow and his limbs relax. Oh Jesus, he could have really hurt her. His _friend._ His _Lucy._ Who’s been so kind and unbelievably supportive, who's kindness he doesn’t _deserve._

“I shouldn’t have just climbed onto your bed unexpectedly, I’m an idiot,” she chuckles ruefully. “Especially after the last few days we’ve had. It was completely my fault.”

Her arm slides around his back, and he shudders before slumping completely. It’s not her fault, but he’s not going to force her to accept otherwise; her opinions are more important than his own. 

But an explanation, that he can give.

“I-” he swallows hoarsely. “Jerking awake, thinking I was being attacked…” he whispers. “There were lots of other terrible things too, but that was what finally made Lorena issue an ultimatum and drag me to actual therapy.”

“Did she startle while you were sleeping you too?”

Flynn nods mutely, trying to summon the strength to keep talking.

“She was pregnant with Iris and- I’d just come home from my last tour with the US Military and there’d been this orphanage… they- someone had rigged it with IDEs and no one knew until it was too late. My squad, we- We spent days pulling the bodies of children from the wreckage. And then I came home on leave and I was mess and absolutely terrified of being a parent. And she got up in the night to go to the bathroom and I slammed her onto her back and put a loaded gun to her head.”

He closes his eyes again, breathing deeply. He’s still so ashamed of what happened that night, of how he’d reacted.

“I handed in my papers after that, got out of the army. Took the NSA contract instead, went to college to do a cyber security masters and start that MPhil.”

“Did it help though?” Lucy asks softly when he doesn’t continue, her hand threading into his hair. “Talking about it?”

“That and the meds,” he admits with a deep grunt and another nod. “Once I found one that worked, that didn’t make me feel worse. Had to go cold turkey when I ran that night, didn’t have the energy to find a way to get them without a prescription. That’s part of why I was such a suicidal mess when you found me in Brazil and gave me the journal. Well, I would have been anyway, but that just amplified the numbing despair.”

“Flynn. You don’t have to answer, but would you tell me what you were taking?”

He ponders the question in silence for a moment. On the one hand they really did help once he’d stuck with them for a few months. On the other hand, they weren’t an instant cure-all and the withdrawal had been atrocious. If he gets stuck somewhere without them again… 

“Mirtazapine,” he eventually says quietly, still breathing into Lucy’s neck. “Brand name here in the USA is Zispin.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone okay?” Lucy reassures him. “But I want you to consider asking Denise for some.”

Flynn doesn’t answer, but he does finally nod.

“Think you can sleep some more now? It’s only been two hours since we got back.” 

He considers silently some more and then nods again. Slowly, Lucy disentangles their arms and tugs him back to the other end of the bed. Gingerly, he settles himself back under the covers on the wall side and then rolls onto his side. Lucy props herself upright against the headboard next to him, tucking her socked feet under the top edge of the turned-back comforter, and then picks up one of Rufus’ oversized tablets.

“You not gonna sleep too?” he yawns at her, dragging his pillow down slightly on an angle and stretching his legs out diagonally across the bed. 

“I already napped a bit,” she smiles down at him. “I’m just checking out what’s changed in this timeline, and then I’ll go back to my own bed.”

“Tell me?” he asks, eyelids already drooping again. 

“Well,” she starts, obliging him. “The World's Columbian Exposition still happened, and we still went there together and met Houdini, it just happened in Matthias rather than Chicago. HH Holmes still built his murder hotel and Wyatt and Rufus still ended up trapped in it. Free public Libraries still started up within two years because the United Kingdom’s book donation still happened. And the subsequent building regulations were actually even stricter and more heavily enforced around the USA faster than originally, so actually things worked out better for us? General Philip H. Sheridan still lead the relief drive but arrived on the 10th instead of the 11th and brought almost double the number of military men with him. Corporations and individuals and foreign governments banded together to…”

He’s sure Lucy keeps talking, but he’s not awake enough to hear the words from then on.

* * *

He’s very careful about not disturbing Lucy when he crawls out of bed an unknown number of hours later. The leather strap on his stolen vintage watch is singed along one side beyond repair and the face is coated in a layer of ash and soot he still needs to clean off, but his battered 1950s bunker alarm clock dutifully informs him that it’s five past ten in the morning when he grabs it.

He hesitates for a second and then reconsiders. Probably the morning. It could be 10pm for all he knows; he hasn’t got the faintest clue when they’d arrived back in the Lifeboat, or how long they’ve slept for.

Quietly pulling a sweater on over his tee and then grabbing his sneakers (as his boots are still in the Lifeboat) (or so he hopes; the alternative is that they’re in a barrel in the 1870s), he pulls his covers properly over Lucy and moves her dropped tablet onto the bedside table. Then, leaving the door in its usual wide open position, he slowly tiptoes out into the hall. 

When he reaches the main bay, Wyatt has Flynn’s two Barrettas in pieces on the coffee table, a bottle of gun oil and a pile of rags next to them. Jessica waves lazily from next to him, and then sticks her nose back in the Austen novel she’s reading.

“You don’t have to do that for me Logan, I’ll sort them,” he yawns as he waves back and then heads for the coffee machine. He muses over the options for a second and then pushes the buttons for an extra-chocolate mocha. 

“My name’s Wyatt man,” Logan grins back at him, still carefully greasing the inside of one slide and the connected locking lug. “To quote Connor, be a dear and make me a brew too would you love?”

“Okay Wyatt, but I’m still Flynn,” he replies cautiously as he grabs two more mugs. “I’m not- I don’t know if I’m ready to be Garcia again yet.”

“Sure dude, no problem” Wyatt shrugs, as if it’s that simple. Probably is to be honest, and it’s only Flynn getting all caught up in overcomplicating something as simple as his name. But Garcia was a husband and a father, someone who was relaxed and happy and trusting, someone who wasn’t embroiled in a private war with the entire history of the world on the line.

These people, this team though. They make him want to be Garcia again. He’s not ready to leave all his pain and suffering behind yet. But he wants to be ready. So maybe one day he will be.

Picking up the three fresh coffees, he slips through the gap between two the couches and steps up to the coffee table, gently setting the all mugs down. Once he’s settled himself, he rolls his sweater sleeves up, grabs a rag, and joins in the meticulous cleaning.

* * *

Rufus appears next, hand in hand with Jiya.

Flynn has worked out by this point that it’s ten in the morning not at night, as there’s sunlight pooling in through the windows of the main corridor. However, it’s not Tuesday as he thought it would be, but Wednesday. Apparently they were gone for a little over 24 hours, and the team members that had been left behind had all started to get more than a little concerned about their prolonged absence.

When they’d finally come back looking like walking hell…

Well, Flynn can’t imagine their worries had been much relieved.

“Morning guys,” Rufus waves, heading straight for the fridge. Jiya moves past her boyfriend after trailing a hand along his shoulders and starts up the coffee machine again. Within a few minutes, the two of them join Flynn, Wyatt and Jess on the couches, both with bowls of granola and yogurt in hand.

“That is disgustingly healthy,” Flynn wrinkles his nose as he racks the first of the two guns back together, cocking it back to check the slide and ensuring the hammer catches on the engaged safety. He double checks the magazine is empty and then releases the safety, repeating the motion. Satisfied, he gives it yet another once over just in case and then flicks the safety back on and places it inside the metallic gun case by Wyatt’s feet. 

“We don’t all have the metabolism to sustain the body of Adonis despite living off carbs and sugar Bandit,” Rufus chuckles. “I don’t know how you and Wyatt manage it!”

“Please love,” Jiya snorts. “You know how. You’re in the best shape you’ve ever been in since you started going on these missions despite having your gym membership cancelled.”

“Existential fear and running away from slavers does burn calories and pile on muscle, I’ll grant you that,” he grins. “And I know you love the guns,” he adds in a deep voice, flexing his bicep.

“Sure you’re not up to sharing him Jiya?” Flynn smirks as he wipes gun oil off his hands. “I can be a very affectionate lover…”

“I’m sure you can, but the answer is still no,” Jiya drawls, hooking her arm round Rufus’ neck and pressing a kiss against the side of his head.

“Shame,” Flynn sighs. “Guess I’ll make do with Wyatt then. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Still married and still not into men,” Wyatt responds without missing a beat, Jess chuckling but happily keeping her nose in her book with commenting.

“But sweetie, we would be so good together,” Flynn mock gasps.

“Sounds gay, I’m in,” Lucy grumbles as she shuffles in wearing Flynn’s favourite grey hoody and looking less than awake. “Amy used to say that all the time, did I use it right?”

“Eh, close enough,” Flynn smiles, shuffling up to give her space to sit down too. 

“Aaaand done!” Wyatt proclaims, dropping the second Beretta into the case and clicking the locks down. Shoving it with one foot under the coffee table, he then leans over and drops a loud smacking kiss on his wife’s cheek, despite her laughing protests. 

“And there was much rejoicing,” Rufus deadpans, Jiya following it up with a toneless cheer.

“Movie quote?” Lucy asks as she kicks her shoes off and stretches her legs out onto the coffee table. 

“Yeah, Monty Python and the holy grail,” Jiya nods. “Tossup between whether that one or Life of Brian is more of a classic.”

“Never seen either,” Lucy yawns, flipping Flynn’s hood up and tucking her hands into his sleeves. “Mom didn’t approve and even Amy didn’t try and push that boundary.”

“You’ve never seen any Monty Python?” Flynn frowns. “Even we had the films out in Croatia and the country is full of highly devout Roman Catholics. Technically I’m one too, but um. War tends to polarise your views on religion one way or the other. I went the _no god would ever allow such atrocities_ route, but Lorena kept her faith so I still went to church services with her when she asked. Point is, I saw life of Brian in ’88 not long after my 13th birthday and thought it was hilarious and that was at the height of my theism.”

“To be honest, Amy probably watched it at some point anyway,” Lucy says quietly, her eyes looking at some unseen horizon. “Do we have either of them? It would be nice to do something rebellious that she would cheer me on for.”

“Yeah, yeah we can do that,” Jiya smiles softly, reaching for the TV remote. “Hacked global Netflix access, here we come…”

* * *

_“Just checked on Flynn,” Wyatt sighs to Rufus. “He’s fast asleep, but he was shivering with cold.”_

_“I gave him a load of the spare blankets, warned him it gets even colder than usual down here at night,” Rufus rubs his eyes tiredly. “But I guess he forgot to grab them before he got into bed.”_

_“Yeah, they were still folded on top of his desk,” Wyatt huffs a smile. “I felt a bit like a creepy uncle, but I threw them over him and tucked him in. Hopefully he’ll warm up soon.”_

* * *

Wyatt grumbles about not getting any maintenance work done when Rufus flicks Netflix over from Life of Brian to Holy Grail, but he doesn’t get up to do any. Connor wanders in just as the opening sequence is flashing violently away in red and yellow, and after some remark about the French castle being in western Scotland, perches himself next to Wyatt and Jessica.

On the couch to his and Jiya’s left, Flynn has slumped right over and fallen asleep again, one arm thrown over Lucy’s middle and his forehead pressed into her thigh. Rufus is pretty sure the sports sweater she’s wearing with the hood up doesn’t actually belong to Lucy. 

Lucy herself seems entirely unperturbed by being used as a pillow by the sleeping giant though, merely petting the man’s hair while laughing at all the corny jokes and remarking that’s the movie is actually fairly historically accurate all considering. _Not that roman empire is my historical speciality_ she’s also sure to include with a faint embarrassed blush.

And then Agent Christopher comes looking for them all, and with a deep, indulgent sigh, squashes in on Jiya’s far side too.

Rufus is just happy to have Jiya tucked warm against his side, no flames or smoke in sight, and all of his friends close by and relaxed.

He wishes all their bunker days could be like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone actually noticed that I hadn't used Flynn's first name for 17 chapters and 60,000 words? Because it's been a reet pain in the arse avoiding using it 😂


	18. Chapter 18

Flynn wakes in his bed alone and feels strangely bereft.

Three nights of sharing with Lucy and-

No, he’s going to carry on not thinking about it.

Grumbling to himself, he rolls over, lying on his stomach with his arms and legs sprawled out. The light spilling in through the open door seems warmer than usual. Either someone has finally managed to cut through the rusted cage locks encasing the ancient light fittings and changed the bulbs, or, more likely, the sun is right in the correct early morning position to have crested the opposite hill but not have risen beyond direct window height.

It’s nice though. Makes the dingy green and grey walls look less menacing. 

When the red soreness on his face becomes too irritating to ignore and the sunlight has faded down from brilliance, he slides out of bed and goes looking for Lucy. She had the aloe crème last, and he could really use a good dollop to rub into these burns about now. 

And well, the company would be nice.

Wyatt and Jess’ door is shut when he passes, but they’re clearly awake. And enthusiastic about being so, he notes with a wince. He gets that Wyatt has only had Jessica back a few days and that Jess has been too bruised and sore to do much for most of that. But really? That’s no excuse for not showing some consideration.

Shaking his head in disgust, he moves on past quickly.

Agent Christopher is the only one in the main living area when he saunters in, cringingly loud echoes still following him. She’s not normally at the bunker this early, but she’s got that clear plastic box that he’d carried down from the car however long ago, the lid off and a tangled snarl of string lights in her hand.

Flynn peers over at her curiously, but figures the wiser choice is to leave her to it. She looks pretty aggravated and she’s not Flynn’s top fan even on her good days.

Bypassing the coffee machine too, he strolls on down to the Lifeboat. The door hatch is open – as it always is when machine is in the bunker – and the stairs locked into place in front of it, so it’s a simple matter to climb inside and check around the floor. 

The pile of clothing he was looking for is shoved under the seat Lucy usually claims and is remarkably clean except for one long streak of ash ending in a handprint on Rufus’ sweatshirt. His boots, which he finds at the bottom of the pile along with Rufus’ all stars, are also in good condition, and it only takes him a moment to swap his sneakers for them and then bundle everything up into his arms. 

He fully plans on ghosting past Christopher on his way back and then continuing on with his hunt for Lucy, but as soon as passes the computer bank her head snaps up and she pins him with a glare.

“Oh good, an extra pair of hands finally,” she bites out. “Come and make yourself useful Mr Flynn.”

“Um. Okay?” he replies carefully, feeling like he’s just walked into a minefield.

A pleased groan reverbs loudly from the hall, and they both grimace at each other. Then Christopher’s murder stare returns, and he hastily drops the pile of clothes on one couch and plonks himself down on the adjacent one.

“Untangle these while I sort the candles,” Christopher demands, shoving the electrical rat’s nest at him. 

Flynn hasn’t even had any caffeine yet dammit. And his face _hurts._

Nevertheless, he sighs quietly and does as he’s told; she really does hold the power of his life and death in the palm of his hand after all. Worse, she holds the power to re-imprison him, so he’s really not going to push his luck with her.

_“Yes Wyatt! Wyatt! Right there!”_

God fucking dammit, Flynn is going to murder the Logans. 

Christopher slams a pack of white tea-lights onto the coffee table, and Flynn realises he might have to wait in line for the chance.

“So um, what’s all this for?” he asks cautiously, his shoulders tensing by the second.

“It’s the start of Diwali today,” Christopher grunts. “Indian festival of light.”

“Are we, ah. Decorating the bunker then?”

“Obviously,” she glares mutinously at him. “I may have been born and raised in America, but I was brought up to remember my heritage. And this team needs all the warding against darkness and evil it can get.”

“Right,” Flynn clears his throat, ducking his head.

“I’m supposed to be at home with my wife and kids,” Christopher growls, prying the candle wicks upright one by one. “I’ve had this week booked off for months, but what does that matter in the face of one white middle-aged male agent’s last-minute request? Fuck all apparently.”

Flynn wisely decides not to ask why she’s here anyway if that’s the case. It’s not like any of them are off on a time jump, nor likely to be today, and they have no way of informing her bosses that she played hooky even if they wanted to. He loops another section of lighting back on itself in silence instead. 

“It’s not you I’m pissed off at,” she suddenly sighs. “You _do_ piss me off a lot. But you’re not directly at fault this time for a change. I hate having to live with institutionalised bigotry.”

Flynn shrugs. He’s knows Christopher doesn’t particularly like him. Tolerates him yes, and at the start of all this he thought that was already more than he deserved, the best he would get from any of them. But like him? No, she does not.

“I said no at first you know,” she tells him plainly after a moment. “I went to a lot of a trouble to put you in jail, and I was happy to leave you there. As far as I’m concerned, arresting you and charging you with terrorism was the right thing to do and I still stand by that. So when the others decided to break you out, I was not impressed. But this group? Once they make up their minds and all throw their weight behind one path, you’d have more chance stopping a blizzard with a single match.”

“They’re um. Very loyal to each other,” Flynn mumbles, finally managing to free one of the battery packs. He sets it aside with trembling fingers and starts unthreading the next one from the opposite end.

“Yes they are. And god help them, they’ve decided you’re one of them. So you listen here, and you listen well. If you hurt _any_ of them, if this quiet, guilt ridden and regretful person you seem to have become is nothing more than a façade you’re using to get close to them and hurt them? Then you will rue the day you stepped foot in this bunker. I will find you a hole so deep that just looking at it will make you long for the home comforts of your supermax solitary cell. And then I will toss you in it and forget that you ever even existed.”

“Understood,” he flinches, hands tightening on the cables.

“Good,” Christopher says much more softly, surprising him. “For the record, I don’t think you’re faking it. No man could sustain the illusion of the _that_ much emotional turbulence and attachment for as long as you have. I think you’re really are trying, and that you’re working to actually earn this second chance you’ve been given. So here’s what I’ll give you in return; you do by right by the team, and I’ll do right by you when this is over.”

“I don’t deserve their kindness, I know that,” he tells her gruffly. “But it’s not up to me to dictate their thoughts and feelings. They want to hate me, they’re entitled to that. I’d stand silently by and let them. But they want to befriend me, and I don’t get to manipulate them into doing the opposite either. I don’t own them, I don’t control them.”

Yet another loud moan of ecstasy shatters the tense moment.

“That said,” Flynn smiles lopsidedly. “Right now I damn well wish I could.”

“I’m not a Christian, but amen to that kiddo.”

* * *

He’s ordered into helping string the lights up next, great looping swirls tacked all up the walls of the main bay, and a long string wound around the water pipes hanging from the hall ceilings. He’s arranging candles into specific colour groups under Christopher’s watchful eye when Lucy stomps in looking thoroughly peeved and deeply unhappy.

Flynn doesn’t blame her; Wyatt and Jess have only just shut the fuck up.

“Hey,” Lucy grumbles, going straight for the coffee. “Saw the lights in the hall. Diwali?”

“So I’m told,” Flynn smiles back tightly. 

“Where’s Jiya and Rufus?” she grunts as the familiar grinding sound starts.

“Haven’t seen them this morning yet,” Christopher tells her, wandering over to help with the drinks. “We thought you were with them to be honest.”

“No.”

Yeah. Really, deeply unhappy.

“Oh sweetie, I’m sorry,” Christopher sighs, her hand sliding onto Lucy’s back. Flynn goggles in shock; for some reason it had never registered that this woman was a mother with nearly grown children until now.

“I’m fine,” Lucy mutters, her voice completely devoid of conviction. “What’s one night compared to twelves years of marriage anyway?” She pauses. “Besides, it’s not like I’m not used to always being second best.”

“Come on, come and sit with Flynn and I,” Christopher insists gently. “I’m showing him the correct way to sort the candles out, and then I’ve got some chalk and we can go draw some Rangoli by the front door.”

“I’ve never been to a proper Diwali celebration,” Lucy says quietly as she shuffles over cradling her mug. Despite Christopher’s obvious steering, she steps away from the other woman once they reach the table they’re using and sits down beside Flynn instead, her elbow sliding along his arm. “Stanford used to try and make a big deal of it, but they do that with every holiday they can manage. And really, what they always meant by celebration was “The student’s union is hosting a piss up to make money off as many people as possible.” Shockingly enough I never actually went to any of the events, let alone the Diwali version.”

“My um, department at Baltimore community…” Flynn offers in return, passing Lucy a stack of candles to sort. “My second year of my masters, they looked up Croatian Independence Day and tried to throw a party for me. I didn’t have the heart to tell them we treat it like a day of mourning not celebration.”

“I suppose it’s the thought that counts,” Christopher mutters dryly. 

“I haven’t really been to Croatia much since I left their military anyway,” Flynn shrugs. “Once the war was declared over in ’95, I made my way up to Russia and then joined the Chechen freedom fighters. Bounced around from war to war until I met Lorena in 2002, and then ended up in Iraq with the US military. You know the rest from my file.”

“Actually, that’s all in your file too,” Lucy chuckles. “Well it was. Who knows how much it’s changed since I saw it just after the Hindenburg.”

“No, it’s still all in there,” Christopher mumbles. “Along with a long list of all your criminal convictions.”

“Hey, be nice to Bandit,” Lucy protests, leaning her head on his arm and grinning up at him. “He was just doing what I’m eventually going to tell him to do in 2014.”

“And I still can’t believe you all gave him a cutesy nickname,” Christopher groans, dropping the last candle on top of a pile.

* * *

“Yo is it Christmas already?” Rufus asks loudly, his tank top smeared with oil and grease. “What’s with all the lights?”

“Diwali,” Lucy tells him as she sits cross-legged on the floor and colours in an arm of the Rangoli they’re working on. Flynn is just sitting next to her, handing her colours as she requests them. It’s peaceful, quiet. Relaxing.

“Okay?” Rufus blinks. “Can I borrow Bandit though; Connor and I have been building his one-way vent door for our escape route.”

“Oh, I’d forgotten about that,” Flynn tells him honestly, brushing his hands off on his cargo pants – a mistake which leaves rainbow coloured dust all over his thighs.

“Well once you’ve deemed it up to standard, we should crawl up there and install it. Got the motion detectors ready to go too.”

“Go on, go have fun,” Lucy nods at him when he glances at her. “I know you both like crawling around those vents playing spy kids. So long as Wyatt doesn’t try to corner me, I’ll be fine.”

“You sure? The vents can wait.”

“Yes dear,” she smirks at him dryly. “I’ve got my big girl pants on and everything.”

Blushing red enough to hide his burns, Flynn stands and follows Rufus down to the machine shop.

* * *

_“Cocoa pops,” Wyatt nods in confirmation. “And lots of cake and chocolate.”_

_“Well if it makes him eat without one of us having to breathe down his neck…” Lucy trails off._

_“I will add cocoa pops to the grocery list,” Denise rolls her eyes._

* * *

“So you and Lucy huh,” Rufus smirks at him from out of the end of the vent shaft. He’s lying on his front under a bush, his hands holding the miniature sensor in place while Flynn drills the screws in from inside the shaft.

Flynn frowns. Him and Lucy what?

“Oh don’t give me that look, you’re all over each other,” Rufus laughs. “No really, you look confused dude.”

Flynn feels his mouth open slightly in puzzlement.

“Oh wait really?” Rufus gapes at him. “You keep sharing a bed and falling asleep on each other and being all cuddly and shit and it’s just platonic!?”

“There’s nothing _just_ about platonic relationships,” Flynn growls automatically. “They’re not lesser than other types of relationship.”

“Okay yeah, good point,” Rufus concedes with a contrite look. “My mentor is aromantic, I should know that shit.”

“Good,” Flynn grunts, jamming the hand drill a little harder so the screw bites all the way in. 

“Okay, so you’re platonic right now. Is that what you want though?”

“Don’t know,” Flynn shrugs honestly as he lines the final screw up. Rufus moves his hand out of the way, and the sensor stays put. “You all know my head’s a mess. Don’t even know up from down some days.”

“Well okay. How does Lucy make you feel?”

“What is this, kindergarten question time?” Flynn raises an eyebrow.

“We’re bros!” Rufus grins brightly. “And a real bro knows its bros _and_ hoes. Not that Jiya’s a hoe. Or Lucy. Or- Oh god, let’s just never repeat that sentence. Look please just be all manly and tell me about your emotions.”

“I don’t know,” Flynn repeats. “I don’t think about it.”

“Oof, now that clearly means “I do know, and I can’t _stop_ thinking about it”. Come on honey, _please_ tell me the gossip and let me braid your hair.”

“You are the gayest straight man I have ever met,” Flynn deadpans, and then scoots backwards down the vent away from his friend.

“That’s a compliment!” Rufus yells after him.

* * *

Flynn continues not thinking about it at dinner that evening, where Agent Christopher insists on making them all curry from scratch. Not a single tinned ingredient in sight for a change, and candles flickering joyfully all around them.

And then he doesn’t think about it after dinner when Wyatt starts quizzing him about 1870 and writing it all down in a debrief file.

And he _definitely_ doesn’t think about it when he goes to bed alone that night.

* * *

Not a lot of choice when he wakes up the next morning with Lucy cradling his head again though.

* * *

“Rufus,” Flynn grins shark like, his palms slapping down onto the work bench the other man is working on. 

“Jesus fuck!” Rufus startles, dropping his tablet atop the stack of circuit boards on the table. “Lucy is fucking right,” he points accusingly. “You need a damn bell!”

“Where is Lucy sleeping?” Flynn demands with a deliberate leer. 

“Um. What?”

“When she’s not with me, where is she sleeping? The cot out of the holding cell disappeared almost a week ago, where is it now?”

“It’s in Connor’s room dude. What’s with the interrogation?”

“You guys made her share with Mason!?” he splutters incredulously.

“Hey!” Mason objects from the other end of the machine shop. “What’s wrong with me!?”

“Best you don’t answer that Bandit,” Rufus says hurriedly. “Connor’s room fits two beds in it and the rest of us are couples. Lucy said it made sense and Connor doesn’t mind. He passes out in here more often that he sleeps in his own bed anyway.”

“Aw come on,” Flynn huffs, accent pronounced. “He’s _Connor_ though.”

“I know but-”

“Do you all loathe me or something?” Connor pulls a face. “Do I smell? Or have I somehow insulted all your mothers?”

“You’re an insomniac alcoholic full of self-resentment.” Flynn tells him flatly. 

“Um! Pot kettle!” Connor objects, waving a spanner at him meaningfully.

“No, I am an insomniac terrorist full of self- _loathing,”_ Flynn grins. “There’s a difference,” he cocks his head. 

“I’m pretty sure they’re functional synonyms,” Connor harrumphs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Do you want a room of your own back or not?” Flynn sighs exasperated.

“I think that that decision is up to Lucy,” Connor tells him pointedly. 

“Well obviously I’m going to phrase it as an offer she has no obligation to accept.”

“But isn’t your room a little small to share?” Rufus frowns. “I don’t think you’ll get another bunk in there even if you take the rest of the furniture out.”

“No, but apparently Mason’s room is big enough for two beds _and_ it doesn’t have any windows.”

“Oh so we’ve moved on from insults to casually evicting me,” Connor grumbles. “Starting to feel like a bloody doormat here.”

* * *

“See if we put your bed here in the corner behind the door and mine in the opposite corner, then there’s still room for a desk and both our bookshelves,” Flynn grins, his arms wide.

“You’re awfully enthusiastic about this,” Lucy chuckles. 

“Rufus asked me what I want,” Flynn shrugs unselfconsciously. “What I want is to not sleep alone like I had to in my cell.”

Not exactly what Rufus had meant when he’d asked, but that doesn’t make it any less true. And he has noticed that he sleeps better when there’s someone else close by. If the person that’s available to share with is Lucy, well... Bonus.

“You know,” Lucy starts with a considering look. “There’s quite a lot of white paint left from when we did the bathroom last week. And Denise left all the Rangoli chalk here too. If we’re taking all the furniture out of here and your current room anyway….”

“We could claim some of the fairy lights!” Flynn grins, bouncing on his toes. 

“Okay, fine,” Lucy grins back. “Let’s do it!”

* * *

_“When we broke Flynn out of jail, I was expecting to gain a glowering, sulky, and petty menace that we’d have to treat like an abused feral cat prone to lashing out,” Rufus frowns. “Not… this.”_

_Wyatt looks at where Rufus just gestured to with a sweep of his arm._

_Flynn is flat on his back on the couch, his mouth open, his legs dangling over the arm, and one of Lucy’s civil war textbooks lying open on his chest. Someone has tossed a blanket loosely over him too, and he looks weirdly carefree and young in his sleep._

_“Yeah, he’s less angry caged tiger, and more… timid field mouse,” Wyatt muses._

_“It’s weird is what it is,” Rufus shakes his head._

* * *

I want to do our room too,” Jiya smirks right into his ear, tapping a paint smeared finger against his cheek. “On our own. Clothes optional.”

“That might take a while, but I’m sure we could organise it,” Rufus leers back just as quietly. 

They return to painting Connor’s room with snickers and exaggerated eyebrow waggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Does this count as slow burn, it's been 18 chapters and 70,000 words  
> Also me: it's also only been 3 weeks in-story???  
> Me yet again: Edward my man, Flynn just asked Lucy to move in with him  
> Meeeeeee: Yes but Edward. Flynn automatically assumed they'd be needing their own beds.


	19. Chapter 19

They give the paint a couple of hours to dry by which time it’s dinner. 

Rufus was on cooking duty tonight, so what they get is a whole lot of seasoned potato wedges and hunter’s chicken. Minus the bacon for Jiya, for obvious reasons.

Flynn, a big fan of barbecue sauce, manages to eat more of his portion than usual, only leaving half his wedges and a small pile of beans and carrots. Lucy then prods him into finishing the carrots too, by way of stabbing them on her own fork and holding them in front of his face until he eats them. 

He’s had worse Friday night meals. 

Flynn volunteers to do the washing up and load the dishwasher once they’re all sat around the table groaning comfortably, which leads to Lucy promising to help him.

“As soon as I’ve worked up the willpower to move from this chair anyway,” she smiles contently. “Can never go wrong with chicken, cheese, and bacon. Good decision Rufus.”

“Unless you’re lactose intolerant,” Flynn hums. “Or vegetarian. Or Vegan. Or Jiya.”

“Halal is all the rage thanks,” Jiya smiles intimidatingly at him. “Or Kocher will do in a pinch.”

“Surprised you’re not full vege,” Wyatt yawns, his arm around Jess’ shoulders.

“Well I keep considering it, but I kind of hate most nuts and I’m not a huge fan of mushrooms, which are two of the main protein replacement sources. And Quorn mince is fine, but the chicken tastes like part decayed death.”

“Pescatarian?” Flynn suggest, pushing an abandoned bean through his leftover sauce with his fork. 

“I’m Lebanese, of course I wonna keep eating my lovely delicious seafood,” she grins. “Also kibbeh, which is made from lamb paste. But I’d save that as a holiday treat.”

“Ugh, I’d murder you all in your sleep for some decent zagrebački odrezak,” Flynn moans.

“You’d sell us all to Satan for one corn chip,” Rufus laughs. “Murder is a pretty low bar for you assassin man.”

“What is zagre- zagrebark-?”

“Zagrebački odrezak,” Flynn repeats, correctly Lucy’s shaky attempt. “Veal steaks stuffed with ham and cheese, breaded and fried,” he explains with a dreamy smile.

“Oh, kind of like a stuffed schnitzel!” Wyatt exclaims. 

“Šnicle,” Flynn nods in agreement. “That’s zagrebački odrezak without the stuffing.” 

“If we ask Denise to get some venison, we could try making some?” Lucy offers tentatively. 

“You can get Halal venison,” Jiya nods enthusiastically. “I’ll just swap out the ham for some red bell pepper or something.”

“And then you won’t have to murder us to get it!” Rufus smirks. “Win win all round.”

“Okay yes, I’ll try making you some Croatian food sometime,” Flynn rolls his eyes fondly. “Though honestly the pastries are the best and the oven here is all wrong for those. Kremšnita might be doable? Custard slices basically.”

“A custard what?”

“A Napoleon pastry,” Connor drawls. “The iced slices with confectioner’s custard in them?”

“Ohhh,” all the Americans round the table say pretty much in unison.

“And with that settled,” Flynn declares, slapping his knees with his hands. “Washing up to do, and then furniture to move back into rooms.”

* * *

Once he and Lucy have finished putting the last of the hand washed pots away and set the dishwasher off on its cycle, they wander back down the corridor, arms brushing together as they walk. 

Wyatt and Rufus have Flynn’s bedframe tipped on its side and are trying to manoeuvre it through the door into his and Lucy’s new room. Connor is stood to one side watching them with his hands on his hips, offering loads of useless advice and generally acting like an annoying supervisor.

“Well it came out of the door opposite, so it’s going to fit through this one too isn’t it!” Rufus is complaining when Flynn steps up to help him support his end. “The doors are the same size!”

“You’re tilting it at the wrong angle!” Connor insists loudly, not actually stepping up to help.

“If we tip it any further, it’ll scrape along the door frame!”

“Not if you tip it back the other way!”

“Then it’ll scrape on the top edge instead! It’s aligned right with the door corners!”

“No! Not the pitch angle! The yaw!”

“Ignore him, he means roll! Not pitch!” Wyatt shouts from inside the room.

“Oh for goodness sake,” Jiya groans, pushing Connor out of the way, shooing Rufus off too and then grabbing the frame. “Bandit take the weight and follow my lead.”

Within 10 seconds, they’ve managed to slide it in with a precise twist and then righted it so the legs are face down.

“See! Idiot men! That wasn’t so hard was it!” she huffs. “Now where are we putting this?”

“Far left corner,” Flynn grins, pointing with one hand. “But it needs to go long edge towards the door or it’ll stick out too far to get the other bed in.”

“Right,” Jiya dusts her hands off. “You and Wyatt sort that. Rufus and Connor, go fetch one of the twin frames and bring it to the door. Lucy and I will fetch the mattresses”

“Make sure it’s the cot and not the actual twin!” Lucy calls out to the retreating men. “It needs to be narrow enough to fit behind the door!”

Flynn, having pushed his own frame into the corner, decides to get out of the way and instead think about how many filing cabinets they can get in here to store clothes in.

* * *

Lucy drops heavily on to the end of her bed and yawns widely. 

“God that was such an unnecessary faff,” she groans, knuckling one eye tiredly. “I was going to shower before trying to sleep, but I don’t know if I can be bothered now.”

Flynn smiles softly and settles in the grey armchair he managed to stop Wyatt running off with. They’ve only got the main furniture in and none of their personal knickknacks, but he can still visualise how he- how _they_ can carve this room out as their own space.

All their books stacked side by side on the tall shelving unit on the other side of the door (not that Flynn has many to contribute, but still). Flynn’s small but erratic collection of circuit boards and wiring on the shelf above the end of his bed. Lucy’s assortment of ornaments and stationery collected from all throughout history on the desk, along with her make up and his growing collection of tools. 

Their piles of spare blankets strewn on the ends of their beds, colours clashing as much as materials.  
Washbags and shoes and boots and sneakers mixed in together by the door, their various outdoor jackets hanging on hooks above them. 

Art scrawled all over the walls, sketched in Lucy’s distinctive hand, lights wrapped all around them.

The room is a blank canvas now, but he can already see how it will all come together.

“Worth it though,” he smiles harder.

* * *

He wakes with a pleased smile.

Today, for the first time in what feels like years, he has personal plans.

Nothing relating to taking down Rittenhouse. Nothing that he has to do for his own survival. Nothing he’s doing purely because he _has_ to do it. Just things that he _wants_ to do. 

He rolls out of bed silently, listening to Lucy’s steady and quiet breathing across the room. The floor is as ice cold under his bare feet as it is everywhere in the bunker, but he has half a plan for that. For now, he grabs the clean pair of socks he always leaves tucked into the top of his boots out of habit on. And then, making sure he’s straightened his flannel pyjama pants and grabbed his hoody, he goes to start making pancakes for everyone.

* * *

Within ten minutes of starting to flip the breakfast foods onto plates, all the bunker inhabitants minus Wyatt have come stumbling into the kitchen, eyes sleepy but noses keen.

“Oh yes,” Jiya moans as she shambles over to him. “I’m so glad we kidnapped you and adopted you.”

Lucy laughs at him when he almost drops frying pan in shock. This can largely be blamed on the fact that Jiya throws her arms around his waist and shoves her face into the middle of his back.

“Um, thanks?” he stumbles, eyes wide.

“Let him go before you break him,” Lucy snorts, helping to prise the clingy engineer off of him. “Besides, he needs to be able to move or your breakfast will end up burned.

“Fine,” Jiya grumps. “I’m going to push all the tables together and get plates out. Rufus baby will you get some fruit and yogurt out and bring them over?”

“Guuggghhhh,” Rufus yawns, which Flynn takes to mean yes, as he bumbles his way over to the fridge and starts pulling things into his arms. This all ends up on the table, and once Jess has gone and roused Wyatt and prodded him into the kitchen too, they all crowd round in their usual seats and tuck in.

* * *

“Jiya says to give you this,” Wyatt announces from the doorway, holding out a more normal sized tablet computer than the ones Rufus seems to prefer. “Something about firmware and the boiler. I don’t know, there was a lot of jargon that kind of went over my head.”

Flynn, currently hovering beside the chair Lucy is standing on so she can reach the bedroom ceiling to pin lights up, turns to blink at him with an expression he suspects could be described as owlish. Then he shakes himself, remembering the conversation he and Jiya had while sorting clothes for laundry day. 

“Oh right, for the heating and aircon system,” he grins, reaching out and taking the pad. When he flicks the lock button, he’s confronted with a pin code request, but there’s a post it not stuck to the back with six digits on it that gets him past that. Then, with that out of the way, he finds himself staring at a slightly modified version of PyCharm, one of the most common programmes for coding in python with.

A swipe to the left brings up a digital notepad app filled with basic firmware coding exercises for beginners interspersed with a variety of notes from both Jiya and Rufus. 

He taps and holds to copy and paste the first example into PyCharm, and then using the notes provided, quickly fills in the blanks and adds the additional class.

“Wow, you got absorbed in that fast,” Lucy chuckles, peering down at him. Even stood on the chair, she’s only about 4 inches taller than him still, but it’s still an amusing change in perspective. “You didn’t even notice Wyatt leaving.”

“There’s a reason I went into the NSA rather than the CIA or Homeland,” Flynn grins back, his head tilted slightly back. “Coding is something I picked up because I wanted to, not because it was a useful survival tool. It felt good to use a hobby for good.”

“You could have been an analyst for one of the other organisations though,” Lucy questions, dropping her hands onto his shoulders. “They’re all big on the hacking and firewall breaking. Are those the right terms?”

“That’s a rather simplistic version of what I do, but yes,” Flynn nods. “And as for why the NSA… They wanted me purely as an analyst, that’s why. The others… they would have tried to put me in the field too, and the whole reason I got out of the military was to get away from that.”

“Fair enough,” Lucy muses. “I got the rest of this, you go sit somewhere and learn whatever it is Jiya wants you too.”

“I can work in here?” he suggests.

“If you want to,” she shrugs with a smile. “You’re not exactly in my way.”

“I suspect if I leave this room, I’ll end up being roped into helping Wyatt with either the bathroom of the holding cell again,” he tells her dryly. “Not that I object to physical labour, but I’d rather do this.”

“Go lie on one of the bed’s then,” she nods. “But don’t forget to come up for air occasionally! You will remember to hydrate!”

“Yes mom,” Flynn drawls, flopping back onto his bed with a smirk.

* * *

Once he finds the group chat that Rufus has set up so that he can constantly barrage the actual engineers and computer scientists of the bunker with questions, Flynn flies along. Within a couple of hours, he’s moved on from basic terminal output emulations, to figuring out how to integrate the firmware with actual circuitry and hardware. 

Around him, the room slowly takes shape. 

Flynn already knew that Lucy could draw; there’s plenty of sketches in her journal, and she’s prone to doodling in the margins during their research and note taking sessions. But everything he’s seen so far have been pencil outlines with some shading. This that’s she’s doing now? World’s away from that simplicity.

He’s only half paying attention, absorbed in slowly expanding his project and abstracting out increasingly large chunks of code. So he’ll look up one minute and there’ll be a blank wall. And then he’ll glance up again and there’ll be most of a tepee on it, a union soldier breaking bread with a Sioux warrior before it. 

A landscape shot containing a red sandstone fort nestled in a mountainous glacial valley goes in the space behind the door above Lucy’s pillow. A scene that slowly resolves into a crowd celebrating outside the famous stonewall inn, flags and all, goes above the desk. A tiny Hindenburg on fire sits close to the floor and half hidden behind the infamous grey chair, two silhouettes stood facing each other before it, one noticeable taller than the other.

After Connor brings them sandwiches for lunch, Lucy makes him shift to her bed and picks up the chalk again. At Flynn’s own request, his own corner of the room slowly fills with stars and planets and comets hovering above an endless desert. More silhouettes take shape as she works; a cowboy on a tall stallion, a three-armed cactus backlit by a moon, the moon itself in the process of being lassoed. 

When Connor comes to the door and chucks a box of circuitry and soldering tools at him, she’s moved on to covering his bed with a dustsheet and spraying the lower wall where he might lean with hairspray. A makeshift fixative apparently. 

And after another couple of hours when Jess comes to summon them to dinner, the whole room is a riot of bright pastel colours outlined in thick matt black sharpie. Tiny lights glimmering from under their beds, from around the pipes and along the shelves, and glittering from between the pipes running along the ceiling. 

Flynn has never seen something quite so starkly the opposite of a prison cell that still manages to feel comfortingly closed in and cramped. He knows the bunker is supposed to be a miserable, crowded safehouse that they’re only staying in out of necessity, but he honestly wouldn’t mind staying in this room for ever.

* * *

The middle of next morning he slopes into Mason’s workshop, still in high spirts.

His delicate little temperature sensor seems to work in isolation, the readouts displaying on his pad console matching those on the ancient mercury thermometer in the kitchen, but at the minute it’s just a collection of chips and wiring duct taped to a piece of cardboard. 

He needs to make a proper case for it. 

The room is empty, Connor, Rufus, and Jiya all being in the Lifeboat bay busy rearranging the existing seats to create space for a fourth. Rufus has been working on the math and physics for the parameter adjustments almost non-stop for the last few days, and with Jiya’s help, he reckons another couple of days should be enough to get them installed and working.

Flynn still has mixed feelings about going out on missions. On the one hand, he’s been on three now in as many weeks and the team seem to trust him to do his job, which is good for his self-esteem. On the other, every single one has led to him having a meltdown at some point, as well as coming home with a new collection of injuries to nurse.

That extra seat is going in though, so he’ll just have to wait and see what happens with the mission roster. 

Gently setting his patch-job creation on the table, he wanders over to the computer at the back set up with the CAD and CAM programming. He has no idea how to work it, but Connor said that if all he wanted was a box, there was a preset that he could use that would let him input some basic dimensions and it would do the rest for him. 

He just has to find the preset. 

Clicking every menu tab in sight and pushing buttons at random eventually leads him to what he thinks is the right set of options. Plugging in the millimetre dimensions when prompted, he then slides a sheet of metal into the adjacent chamber as instructed, closes the hatch and prays he’s not about to break everything or cause a fire.

He watches nervously as his metal sheet is machined into a small box net and is then is then scored and bent into an open-top cuboid by a clamp and piston mechanism. 

There’s a loud beep, and then the door hatch clicks and unlocks.

Holding his creation in one hand, Flynn can admit he’s impressed. Maybe Mason isn’t all alcohol and bluster after all if he can set something like this up down here with next to no budget and the bare minimum of resources.

Flynn is still going to do the rest by hand though; no way is trying to work out how to do anything more complex.

* * *

“Behold!” he grins proudly, presenting his finished creation with a flourish. 

“Yooo, you did it dude!” Rufus grins back. He drops his screwdriver and wire stripper into the open toolbox and scrambles to his feet to come and inspect the small metallic box.

“Just another dozen to make,” Flynn rolls his eyes drolly. “And then I’ve got to work out how to connect them all together and how to make a central control system that will integrate with the ancient boiler tank.”

“I can’t believe this has only taken you two days,” Lucy comments, setting down her textbooks and notes to also come and peer at the handmade sensor. 

“I know my main skillset revolves around the fastest way to kill people, but I do have some brains up here too you know,” he jokes, tapping the side of his head. “I’m only 60% murder machine!”

“So long as it’s not us you’re murdering, we’re okay with that,” Rufus chuckles.

“I already tried murdering you all anyway” Flynn shrugs cheekily. “It didn’t go too well for me.”

“Yeah we kicked your ass every time,” Rufus snorts. “No offence dude, but you were a fucking useless villain.”

“I don’t know,” Lucy laughs, elbowing him in the ribs playfully. “He had some high points where I wanted to ring his neck too. Those were quite villainous.”

“I only kidnapped you once Lucy,” Flynn mock pouts.

“And you shot me,” Rufus points at him accusingly. “And Wyatt.”

“You really are never going to let that go are you babe,” Flynn sighs dramatically.

“You bet your ass I’m not,” Rufus cackles.

* * *

_Flynn never sleeps the whole night through._

_Wyatt will watch him skulk off to bed at maybe around ten or eleven in the evening. He’ll check on him after an hour or so and will find him sleeping fitfully, will maybe toss an extra blanket over him._

_But almost without fail, Flynn will get up in the middle of the night and wander in circles around the bunker, face pale and eyes haunted. Pacing back and forth silently. Lost inside his head and painful memories._

_It’s not always Wyatt who will find him and coax him back to bed without words._

_Most often it is Lucy._

_Sometimes its Connor or Jiya or Rufus._

_Once it was Jess, who was disturbed by the blankness of the other man and woke Wyatt up to ask him what she should do._

_None of them ever talk about it, or ever bring it up. And every time, when morning comes, Flynn will act as if he slept the whole eight hours undisturbed. Like he’s fine, like he’s not the bunker’s worse insomniac who spends more time out of bed than in it._

_The constant bags under his eyes tell a different story._

* * *

Joking with Flynn about his history with team is weird. Rufus hasn’t really forgotten about all the shit Flynn put them through, all the damage he did while he was ruthlessly tearing through time no matter how he outwardly acts around the man. But it’s like there’s two different Flynn’s in his head now. 

One is the angry vengeful psycho that would stop his revenge crusade for almost nothing.

The other is his Bandit, who sleeps in weird places, ghosts about late at night with a broken expression, and looks at Lucy like she hung the moon. Who makes corny jokes and flirts with him and Wyatt like it’s going out of fashion. And who is increasingly open about how much a person-shaped mess he is.

Academically he knows they’re same person, that unpleasant experiences have evolved one into the other. But the two versions of him are just so different in demeanour that he often struggles to remember that. And then Flynn will start making jokes at his own expense with lighted hearted words and a teasing tone and the edges blur together.

And well, then it’s weird.

Because no matter how humorously the man tries to present their past encounters, no matter how much self-depreciating sarcasm he tries to hide behind… Rufus can see the pain and regret in his eyes.

And he knows. 

He knows that for Flynn it’s not actually a joke.

He really does hate everything he put them through. He really does turn that hate inwards on himself and loathe his past and his past self. 

The guilt and remorse radiates so strongly off his new friend that… Maybe Rufus can completely forgive him after all. Maybe he _can_ forget and move on. 

(Maybe he can stop pretending that he hasn’t already done so.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, you are correct. Flynn is indeed an unreliable narrator in this fic ;)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day, my good bitches and ladies.  
> Someone stop me.

“Stop,” Flynn calls, his arms crossed. 

All four of his students freeze.

“What do we always do before racking the slide?” he asks patiently, not singling anyone out individually.

“Double check the magazine and the safety,” Lucy bites her lip guilty. Connor also grumbles in a contrite manner, while Jiya and Rufus exchange a silent look that Flynn can’t interpret from this angle.

“Correct,” Flynn nods. “Eject your clips and lay everything back out.”

There’s a slightly tense silence, and then a familiar set of clicking and ratcheting noises as everyone follows his instructions. In just over a minute, there are four disassembled handguns spread back out on the table they’re all sat round, Flynn slowly walking circles around them. 

“Safety first, every time,” Flynn repeats with a nod. “Assemble your weapons.”

* * *

There’s nowhere for them to actually do any target or shot practice inside the bunker, and as they’re not supposed to go outside, they’re restricted to just practicing stances with blanks. The only place it’s passably safe to even do that much is down along the back corridor, so Flynn has them aiming one at a time down the hall at a picture of Emma with a target drawn over her that he’s pinned to the basement door, correcting their arm positions and footwork as best he can without being overbearing or over demanding.

They are all total beginners after all.

While he’s busy with that, Wyatt has two of the others running through basic sparring katas with each other, and the third doing bench press sets. 

It’s the seventh day since the mothership last jumped, and they’re all on edge waiting for it to happen. There hasn’t been a gap this long since before Lucy escaped Rittenhouse’s clutches, and all of them are increasingly anxious about it, wondering what could be causing the delay.

They’re all studiously avoiding voicing the concern that they’ve lost the ability to track the mothership jumps, that somehow Emma has managed to find a way to cloak the bigger, sleeker time machine. Unlikely, given it’s the jump signature they track, not the ship itself. But the concern is still there. 

In the meantime, antsy with inactivity and nerves, Flynn had pulled Wyatt aside for a little chat. Wyatt had already started on a somewhat haphazard training regime before Flynn had arrived, but with a thousand other jobs round the bunker always in need of doing, as well mission research and Lifeboat maintenance and upgrades taking priority, said training often only happened two or three times a week, if even that much.

Flynn had suggested they could formalise it, put together an actual schedule and adapt it to each bunker member’s individual needs. 

So. 

As of yesterday, and by unanimous agreement, they all get out of bed by 8:30am every weekday, and they all have to be dressed and ready to start warming up by nine at the latest. On Saturdays, they push everything back by an hour, and Sundays are rest days. Exceptions made for anyone freshly returned from a field mission. 

Then he and Wyatt alternate each day between teaching weapon handling and hand to hand training. Yesterday Flynn ran them all through proper punching form. Today is his day with the contents of the armoury. Tomorrow he’s back to the mats.

Two hours each morning in total, an hour of cardio and flexibility before dinner. The rest of the time they work on the necessary bunker projects or research, just like they have been all along.

“Line the rear sight up with front sight,” he grunts quietly, his cheek not quite pressed to Lucy’s, eyes along the muzzle of the unloaded Ruger LCP. “Careful not to move your shoulders.”

Lucy lets out a slow breath, her hands suddenly settling into near motionless. 

“And squeeze the trigger,” Flynn whispers. 

The click of the hammer and firing pin striking the empty chamber seems much louder in the quiet hall than it actually is.

“Well done,” Flynn grins as he reluctantly pulls back. “Of course you’ll have recoil and loaded weight to deal with too once we work out how to get an actual range set up down here, but that’s the basics of it.”

Lucy conscientiously lowers her arms smoothly and flicks the safety back on as he speaks, her own grin lighting up her face. Flynn studiously keeps his gaze on her eyes, and not-

“Okay, check your weapon over and then reset,” he nods, taking another step back. “This time I’m going to watch from the side.”

* * *

_“So like, anyone else notice that Flynn completely zones out and then seems to forget everything that’s happened in the last hour?” Rufus asks lowly._

_“It’s called dissociation,” Lucy nods, glancing over her shoulder._

_“Great,” Rufus sighs. “Another thing for me to go rooting through medical textbooks for info on.”_

* * *

“Jebeno sranje ow!” Flynn curses as he burns his fingertip on the end of the soldering gun. “Stück Scheiße,” he adds in German with a growl. “حرام کرنے والی چیز!”

“What was that last one in?” Jiya asks absently as she concentrates on checking his control system code for him. She’s typing a lot, so he presumes there’s a few improvements he could have made.

“Urdu,” he grunts around the finger, which is now in his mouth. “I called the solder a bastard.”

“How many languages do you speak anyway?” she asks with a curious head tilt, still tapping away at the screen.

“A few,” he hisses, blowing on his still stinging finger. “Croatian and English obviously. My German is fluent. I know enough Urdu and Arabic to get by. Russian is pretty good grammatically, but apparently my accent is hideous. The Chechen boys used to call me rock tongue because of it.” 

He takes a breath and considers.

“My French is damn good, but it’s the Belgian variety and I often slip Flemish words in out of habit. I stayed at a Belgian military medical base for six months in ’99, and everyone there spoke at least a conversational amount of both, so they used to mix and match to make themselves understood. Once you know German and Flemish, Danish is pretty easy to pick up. Oh, Serbian too; picked that up during my first war.”

“Oh mama,” Rufus comments from across the table. “No wonder the American government were eager to snap you up. You’re a regular polyglot.

“Little bit of Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian,” he rounds off. “But only enough to cuss at people or order a hotel for a night, maybe some food. Slightly more Mandarin, but not much. And then coding languages, if you count them.”

“Those do not count,” Jiya snorts. 

“日本人じゃない?” Rufus says, with a questioning lilt at the end.

“Yeah I got nothing there,” Flynn chuckles as he finally manages to attach the processing chip to the miniature motherboard.

“Japanese,” Jiya tells him. “My man’s an anime nerd, much to my horror.”

“It’s like, a minor side interest!” Rufus protests.

“You learnt Japanese because of it!” Jiya laughs.

“I speak Sindarin too! And Klingon and Vulcan!”

“Those are not real languages,” Flynn huffs teasingly.

“Hey!” both Rufus and Jiya protest simultaneously.

* * *

“Do do do do do Inspector gadget,” Wyatt sings at him as they drag the long reel of insulated copper wiring through the ventilation with them. Occasionally they’ll pause and Wyatt will skilfully secure it to the top edge of the shaft, ensuring that it doesn’t loop down or snag on anything. 

“No part of this machinery is welded into our bodies or clothing,” Flynn complains as he drags himself on his stomach around a 90° corner. “Although, there’s enough metal plating in my shoulder that I _could_ be considered bionic.”

“I take it you grew up watching the show too then?”

“I was eight when it first started airing in the US. We got it eighteen months later. I’d already lost my majka by that point - my mom I mean, and I was pretty hooked on consuming as much English language media as I could simply because it pissed of my father. When she died, he thought I should let my American heritage die with her.”

“You and him not get on so great then?” Wyatt asks in a knowing town.

“Let’s just say my first serious scars did not come from war,” he grimaces. “Asher and I… Well there’s a few reasons why I lied about my age and joined the Croatian militia and being blinded by patriotism and propaganda weren’t actually the main one.”

“I get it man,” Wyatt nods as they flip open a grate and leave a short loop of cable dangling, ready to have a temperature sensor spliced in later. “My old man was a grade A asshole. Ain’t ever found a battlefield that’s quite as terrifying as the inside of the trunk of a junker doing 100 down a gravel path.”

“Surprised you’re such a fan of cars now then,” Flynn muses out loud as they head back the way they came for a short stretch, the cable now being clipped to the other side of the vent.

“I took what he wanted me to hate and learned to love it just to spite him. Made it my own so he couldn’t use it to hurt me,” Wyatt grins. “Serves the fucker right.”

“Spite can be a powerful motivator,” Flynn smirks, gesturing for the other man to proceed him up the final junction of vents. “Hence my American pop culture knowledge.”

“Sometimes I think it’s a shame he’s not still alive to see me now,” Wyatt says. “He would utterly despise everything about me. Surrounded by geniuses, fighting against bigotry and persecution. My closest friends bein a geeky black man, a strong willed feminist professor, a female engineer of colour, and a Slavic bisexual maniac. It’s like everyone of his hatreds all wrapped up in a neat little package. In fact, I think the only way I could have possibly made my life a worse nightmare in his eyes, would have been to fall in love Rufus or something.”

“Don’t know what happened to my father now,” Flynn mumbles. “In the original timeline he committed suicide on my 21st birthday, surrounded by old family photos with my face burnt out of every single one. I think that might have changed when I saved Gabriel, but I never looked so who knows.”

“Jesus dude, your life is so fucked up,” Wyatt cringes. “I’m kind of amazed that you can talk about it so openly.”

“Therapy is a wonderful thing,” he deadpans back, serious despite his tone.

“Oh, we all need so much therapy when we get out of here,” Wyatt snorts. “And like, a minimum of a year’s paid vacation.”

“I’m hoping I’ll be upgraded from solitary to gen pop,” Flynn shrugs. “I still got time to serve and I’m not shirking it off. Do the crime, serve the time.”

“If you think Lucy is letting you go back to jail, you got another thing coming man,” Wyatt laughs. “She will go toe to toe with the entirety of homeland with Rufus and I at her back, and you damn well know that she _will_ win.”

There’s a long pause, while Flynn’s mind bluescreens.

“I don’t deserve that,” he eventually replies hoarsely. “I’m not worth th-”

“Shut the fuck up man,” Wyatt bites out over him. “You’re part of the team. You’re not going back. Now come on, this is the last exit point for the wiring.”

Numbly, Flynn nods and helps to shove another loop out of the grate. 

They crawl back towards the boiler with the return loop in silence except for Wyatt’s toneless humming.

* * *

“Aw come on guys, fucking really!?” Jiya growls loudly.

She’s just dragged Flynn into the boiler room to help sort laundry again. Flynn had planned on checking that his wiring was holding up okay while he was there; all the hardware is connected together now, but he hasn’t integrated the control centre with the boiler’s thermostat yet. He’ll won’t do that until he’s sure the rest of it is working as it should be.

Only when they push the door to the tiny, lightless space open, they find Jess and Wyatt half undressed with their hands in places Flynn would rather not think about.

Jiya spits her vitriol and then slams the door on them. 

“Shitheads,” she snarls. And then louder, “keep it in your room you inconsiderate bastards!”

Flynn is torn between equal disappointment and disgust, and inappropriate laughter. 

“They can sort the damn washing out,” Jiya mutters, dropping the basket in front of the door. “I’m not doing it now. Serves them right for-” another increase in volume. “-having no respect for public spaces!”

“Yeah, let’s um. Let’s leave them to it,” Flynn huffs, steering Jiya out of the bathroom by her shoulders. He pauses by the door to prop the chair in front of it, silently swearing once again to finally find a way to fix the damn lock. 

“What’s going on?” Lucy suddenly asks, appearing at his side as Jiya stomps off with obvious disgruntlement, still growling. “She okay?”

“Ah,” Flynn winces, aware that he’s going to have to phrase this delicately. “Jess and Wyatt forgot to put the chair in front of the door,” he goes with, indicating the chair in question.

Lucy’s face drops instantly.

“Oh,” she says tonelessly a second later, her face smoothing into careful neutral blankness. “It’s good that they’re getting along and. Um. Repairing their marriage.”

Flynn tactfully doesn’t comment.

“Anyway!” she continues with enough false cheer to almost make Flynn wince again. “I was just reading up about the history of the moon landings! I know you have a personal connection to the aeronautics side, so I wondered if…”

Flynn lets himself smile again as her rambling quickly turns from a distraction from her turbulent emotions into real passion, and he soon finds himself being pulled down towards their room by the hand. Apparently there’s a new chapter in some book that was never there originally, and he absolutely must see it right now and share his opinion on it.

He goes willingly.

* * *

The clock reads 03:45. 

Lucy’s clock, on their shared desk. Digital, unlike his, which he keeps on the rickety upturned box he now uses as a bedside table.

They’d bought Iris a digital clock for her sixth birthday. She’d never grown old enough to turn six.

He slips out of bed, padding out of the room in bare feet.

* * *

His cocoa pops taste like ash in his mouth and he can’t summon the energy to work out why. 

This morning Wyatt and Jess had woken the whole bunker with their should-be-private antics again, even before they were all due to rise for their two hours of scheduled training. 

Opposite him, Lucy is staring dull-eyed into the bottom of her own bowl. Whenever one of the others approach her, she throws on a mask of good cheer so convincing that even Flynn finds himself believing it for a few seconds. But as soon as they move on, she drops it. 

If Flynn felt anything at all this morning, he thinks he’d feel honoured to be allowed to see beyond the façade.

But he doesn’t. He’s just-

Numb.

He gives up trying to eat, the chocolate cereal making him feel more queasy with every forced down bite. Not even bothering to stand up, he merely shoves the bowl away and drops his head onto the table for a long second, his arms wrapped around his head.

A chair scrapes and then footsteps walk towards him, but he can’t find the willpower to care. Right now, he doesn’t care who sees him like this. Because he doesn’t care about anything at all. 

“Flynn,” Lucy says quietly. A hand on the top of his hair, the only part of his head not covered by his arms. He still doesn’t move. “Come sit on the couches with me?”

He can hear that it’s phrased as a question, that if he shook his head she would say alright and leave him be. The team are good like that. They respect each other’s opinions, let each other do their own thing and have their own moments of instability. They respect _him_ when he just… runs out. Of everything. Like a flat battery.

He nods instead.

Slowly, he breathes deep and-

* * *

He blinks and he’s on the couch, his head in Lucy’s lap. 

Off to their right, Wyatt has Rufus and Connor practicing an aikido block over and over again, one that Flynn himself had only taught Wyatt the other day. a step, a jab, block, repeat. And endless loop, mind numbing in its repetition. 

“Again,” he hears Wyatt command, echoed by the other two men’s twin groans. 

Fighting is all about muscle memory.

* * *

He blinks and Lucy is sat beside him, a plate in her hand. The TV is on, Notting Hill playing with the volume down low. She tears a small chunk off of her bread roll, splits it and places a tiny cube of cheese and a strip of ham inside it. Then she hands it to him without looking.

He takes it on autopilot.

He puts it in his mouth.

She repeats the motion twice. One mouthful she eats herself, the next she passes over.

He takes it on autopilot and puts it in his mouth.

He wonders, distantly, how long she’s been doing this for. 

On the screen, Hugh Grant is running through central London, trying to reach a hotel and the press conference within.

* * *

He blinks and.

He blinks and it’s like a fog is lifting. 

He’s so goddamn tired. 

“What-?” he croaks.

“I said do you think you could manage a shower?” Lucy asks him again. He doesn’t remember her asking the first time, but she must have done.

“A shower?” he repeats, his neck feeling stiff and his shoulder hurting. 

“You don’t have to,” she says softly, her hand once again in his hair. “Or Wyatt could help you? I think the hot water would help you though.”

He shakes his head mutely. He doesn’t want Wyatt’s help.

“I’ll manage,” he mumbles, his eyes closing for a second.

* * *

The clock reads 02:34.

Lucy’s clock, on their shared desk. Digital, unlike his, which he keeps on the rickety upturned box he now uses as a bedside table.

Lucy stops him from getting of bed by getting in with him.

He falls back to sleep.

* * *

_“Do you want the good news or the bad news or the even worse news?” Rufus sighs as he hands over the notebook they’re using to keep track of Lucy’s increasing fever._

_“Let’s go middle ground,” Wyatt winces._

_“Oh good, because that’s the order you were getting it in anyway,” Rufus smirks weakly. “So the medium bad news is that Lucy’s fever isn’t coming down. We’re at 103 and counting.”_

_“Shit,” Wyatt curses eloquently. “Good news before the worst?”_

_“Well the good news is that Flynn doesn’t actually have PTSD!”_

_Wyatt does a double take. That can’t be right?_

_“Dude, that’s not funny,” he scowls at his friend._

_“Oh I know,” Rufus chuckles mirthlessly. “He doesn’t have PTSD because the even worse news is that he has C-PTSD instead. Which trust me, is extra not good. He’s probably had it all his life and Rittenhouse and then solitary finally brought all that shit to the surface.”_

_Wyatt looks over Rufus shoulder with a grimace. Lucy, delirious and sweating on one bed. Flynn, practically unconscious with exhaustion on the other. If the Mothership jumps in the next twelve hours_ minimum, _they’re going to be fucked._

* * *

Rufus climbs out from under the Lifeboat as Jiya strolls in looking pretty tired.

“You okay?” he asks as they meet in front of his main laptop. 

“Yeah, I just um. Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night,” she tells him. Rufus bites back the instinctive comment about visions and not wanting to know; everyone in this bunker has a whole bunch of shit going on right now, and his own hang ups about mystical potential prophecies, are like, the least of those.

“You can wake me if you struggling to nod off you know,” he smiles instead, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. “I’ll sit up with you.”

“It’s fine,” she waves off, though Rufus doesn’t think she really believes that. He knows how to pick his battles though. “Let’s leave the middle of the night insomniac wanderings to Bandit hey? Um, any luck on integrating the fourth seat to the Lifeboat?”

“Well,” Rufus tips his head sideways with a semi-hopefully expression. “Unlike the mothership, this baby was put together with tinfoil and juicy fruit. But the math looks good and your coding is always solid, sooooo.”

He hits the export button, feeling his excitement grow as the upload bar zips up without hitting a failure…

There’s a beep, and then a celebratory Wookie cheer. 

It- it worked! He did it! He-!

He grabs Jiya and kisses her senseless. 

“And that my love,” he grins against her lips as she giggles, “is how you upgrade a time machine!”


	21. Chapter 21

Mason is in no state to join in training this morning.

Three sheets to the wind is a bit of an understatement; he’s drunk enough that Flynn is actually quite impressed that he’s still upright and talking. Regardless, neither he nor Wyatt are letting him touch any of the guns, not even an unloaded one. 

This does not stop him from commenting on everyone else as they stretch and warm up. 

Nor does it stop him from performing increasingly random and unconnected chunks of Shakespeare while Wyatt leads them through a punching stance routine. Or when Flynn takes over and gets Rufus and Jiya to carry on practicing the choke hold they started on yesterday. Or when Flynn leaves those two to it and moves to spot Lucy while she starts her work set with the bench bar.

“You know Connor,” Wyatt eventually semi-yells. “I finished securing our new holding cell yesterday. Keep it up and you can be the first person to try it out!”

“Do you bite your thumb at me sir?” Connor giggles, taking _yet another_ swig of whisky. Two thirds of the bottle are gone now, and Flynn has a horrible suspicion that it was almost full when they all went to bed last night. 

“Okay, time out,” Wyatt groans. “We’re only ten minutes short of full time anyway. Go cool down and shower.”

“Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow!” Connor calls after them as they all scurry away quickly, eager to be away from the drunken ranting.

* * *

When he dares to come back to the main hanger half an hour later, Connor has thankfully moved on from quoting soliloquies to sitting morosely on the steps in front of the computer bank, staring into space in silence.

Flynn has finished up his coding and firmware for now, and Rufus and Wyatt helped him connect the system up to the boiler late last night, so for the time being, he’s project free. Knowing that something else will come along in the next thirty minutes tops, he decides to use the time for some leisure reading for once.

Jess, having chosen to stay out of the training group until her ribs are fully healed, is already sitting on the couches. Grabbing the first book off of the top of the stack of classics that lives next to the TV, he settles himself opposite and flicks the first page open.

Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry.

Not Flynn’s favourite by a long shot, but Cassie Logan’s tale of survival in a world filled with racism designed to target her very existence is an important one. Especially given how relatable it is to the bunker team’s current line of work, particularly for Rufus. 

What he had forgotten, as he moves quickly past chapter two, was just how blatant the language is in Mildred D. Taylor’s novella. She certainly didn’t pull her punches when writing about the words and torments thrown at black people in the deep south; no wonder the book was almost banned from schools the world over in 2002.

He turns another page and winces emphatically at the vivid description of a tar and feathering that greets him.

If anyone ever so much as tries to _touch_ Rufus, he refuses to be held responsible for the carnage he will wreck as a result. 

He glances up as he hears the external door creak quietly open in the distance. Rufus calls out that it’s just Agent Christopher from by the Lifeboat; he must have been keeping an eye on the feed from new security camera that Wyatt had apparently rigged up yesterday. 

Meeting Lucy’s eyes across the room, they both set aside their respective books and climb to their feet. Christopher hasn’t been back to the bunker since she left after their mini Diwali celebration five nights ago, and while Wyatt had still been receiving the usual security texts from their handler, they haven’t had any actual news for that long.

But just as he and Lucy are passing the fridge, the Mothership jump alert goes off.

Flynn is actually a little relieved to be honest. Any longer between jumps, and Rittenhouse would definitely have been up to something extra shady in the present.

“It’s San Antonio, Texas. November 23rd, 1936,” Jiya calls out, Connor lurching unsteadily out of her way as she bounds up to check the monitors. 

“Lucy?” Christopher asks as she comes striding in with Wyatt behind her.

“The Texas Centennial Exposition?” she suggests, tugging Flynn with her as she heads to the computer bank. “Six million people attend, including President Roosevelt.”

Flynn frowns. That was in Dallas, not San Antonio. Aren’t they _miles_ apart?

“FDR sounds like a Rittenhouse target to me,” Wyatt nods before Flynn can speak up.

“Agreed,” Lucy continues. “But the exposition took place in Dallas, a few hundred miles away,” she finishes, confirming Flynn’s suspicion. 

“What about you?” Christopher directs at him suddenly. “Ever pick up any Rittenhouse intel about this?”

“Zilch,” he confesses. 

“Alright, anyone got any other ideas?” Wyatt asks, dragging a hand backwards through his hair. 

“It’s got to be the Gunter Hotel,” Connor suddenly slurs, his head popping up from behind the couch. “It’s obvious.”

Everyone, Flynn included, turns to stare at the inebriated man in bewilderment; somehow in the last minute, the older man had not only managed to lie down, but throw a blanket completely over himself and get tangled up in it.

“The Gunter Hotel,” Connor repeats just as unevenly but with a lot of conviction, “is in San Antonio.”

“Um, Connor, can you just-” Rufus winces, but Agent Christopher cuts him off.

“Why would Rittenhouse care about a hotel?” she demands, striding forwards purposefully. 

“Because,” Connor grins sloppily. “In that hotel, on the 23rd of November 1936, Robert Johnson and Don Law changed the world.”

* * *

“Flynn, you’re on board this mission,” Christopher suddenly announces as everyone starts gearing up to save Johnson, the blues, rock n roll, and counterculture itself. “Logan take a backseat.”

“Wait what?” Wyatt protests while Flynn feels his heart drop into his stomach. “Not that I object to Flynn going, but he hates these missions and I’m right here!”

“Well he survived his first three and I need you here Logan!” Christopher demands. “So help him gear up so they can get going!”

* * *

“Rufus,” Flynn swallows hard as he watches Lucy buckle Connor into the brand new fourth seat. “How are these latest modifications going to effect your long cantilever in a gyro theory?”

“Well,” Rufus shakes his head as he starts flicking switches. “You ever play Buckaroo as a kid? ‘Cause the ship is the horse and you and your stomach are the final pieces of luggage.”

“Ah,” Flynn grimaces, deciding to pull his seatbelt straps extra tight.

* * *

Flynn sits with his eyes shut and his head tilted back, breathing carefully while everyone else unbuckles themselves and gets the door open. By the time Connor has staggered out with Rufus hot on his heels, Flynn has only just convinced himself that he won’t actually throw up.

“Hey,” Lucy says softly, her hand coming to rest on his cheek. “You good?”

“Will be in a second,” he smiles lopsidedly, letting his eyes flicker open. 

“Here, I got your harness,” she offers, fingers familiarly nimble as she loosens his straps and then unclips them all. “You want a hand up?”

“Nah, I got it,” he waves away, bracing himself to stand. 

The world spins for a second once he straightens almost to his full height, his hair flattened against the roof, but the greying out of his vision only lasts an instant. With another deep breath, he shakes his arms out and gestures to Lucy to proceed him.

“Nope, you first,” she chuckles. “Then you can help me climb down.”

“It would be my honour,” he half-bows, one hand behind his back.

Once his feet are on the grass and he’s had a good look around at their surroundings, he turns to offer Lucy his hand. As soon as she takes it, he brings his other hand up to her waist and lifts her down instead. 

She giggles freely for a second as he spins easily and deposits her smoothly down with a flourish. 

“You’re such a dork,” she laughs, slapping the back of her hand against his shoulder lightly. 

Then they turn their attention to Rufus and Connor, the former of whom is pinching his brow in exasperation as his mentor prattles on sonorously about physics and static and bending space-time. He has a bottle of water clenched in his hand, all of them knowing exactly what’s about to happen.

“Any second now,” Flynn smirks to Lucy, leaning down slightly to say it quietly into her ear.

And exactly as they were predicting…

Connor doubles over and is violently sick in front of his feet.

“And boom goes the dynamite,” Flynn grins with a dramatic gesture, snickering as the others all roll their eyes.

* * *

_“Silicone gel and strips?” Denise frowns, looking down at the list Rufus has just handed her. “The stock of antibiotics and stronger painkillers makes sense, but what are those for?”_

_“The help reduce keloid scarring and help prevent them from forming over new injures,” he explains._

_Denise continues frowning._

_“So does proper injury treatment, and much more effectively.”_

_“Yes, but half of Flynn’s injuries have clearly only seen minimum care,” he shakes his head. “And I’m pretty sure he let the thin line scars down his left arm form deliberately.”_

_Denise feels her eyes widen. She knows exactly what Rufus is implying._

* * *

Lucy had had an idea for this mission.

Not a history related one. A Flynn related one. She’s quite good at coming up with both types to be honest.

Flynn finds out what it is once Rufus has thrown the empty plastic bottle back into the Lifeboat and gotten Connor to tuck his shirt tails back in.

“Here,” she tells him, her hand held up to him. Flynn frowns for a second before realising she’s holding a pair of sunglasses out to him. “They’re not really styled in a period typical manner, but I think you’ll get away with them.”

“Thanks?” he questions lightly as he takes them and slides them on to his face.

And then his mouth drops open as the threatening blue of the midmorning sky dims to a much more tolerable pale washed out purple, everything else still crisp and clear.

“I take it they’re working?” she asks with a grin. “Jiya’s idea. Apparently lots of gamers are using blue light reducing glasses to prevent eye strain. I suggested combining the lenses with some polarising sunglasses and well…”

“They’re brilliant,” he gasps, holding out his hands to stare at his fingers. “I- thanks,” he grunts, unable to stop the small grateful smile despite his embarrassment. The glasses aren’t a cure-all – outside is still outside after all – but they’re certainly taking the edge off his anxiety.

“No problem,” she smiles back, slipping her hand into his.

* * *

They find a car first, left unattended outside of a ramshackle roadhouse bar that’s shut up for the day. Warm rock dust is billowing across the otherwise empty parking lot, sticking to their feet and legs as they stroll over. 

Flynn double checks that the bar and surroundings are indeed as empty as they look, and then waves Rufus onwards. He’s not as fast as Wyatt when it comes to jacking locks and hotwiring, but within a few minutes they have the engine running and all pile in. 

As is sensible in this era of Jim Crow laws and blatant misogyny, Flynn settles into the driver’s seat with Lucy in the passenger seat beside him. Connor complains about being relegated to the back, but Rufus silences him with a terse comment about inviting lynches, and then they’re off.

Ten miles down the road, and they start seeing more signs of civilisation. 

“Well we picked the right direction to drive in,” Flynn muses, leaning forward and peering up at the signage they’re passing.

“Does that happen?” Mason asks, speech becoming less slurred but his expression more pinched. “You go haring off in the wrong direction? Surely you all know to check the geolocator in the Lifeboat and synchronise your internal compasses based on the read out?”

“Connor you watched me do that,” Rufus sighs, exasperated.

“Then why’d he say that?” Connor harrumphs. 

“There’s more than one road into San Antonio Mason,” Flynn drawls. “This time we luckily picked one lined with brand new department stores and local businesses.”

“And now we’re going shoplifting,” Lucy nods as Flynn picks one of the bigger buildings and pulls into the parking lot.

* * *

_“Have you seen him without a top on yet?” Wyatt mumbles quietly to Jess._

_“No?” she whispers back with a frown. “Why?”_

_“I’m warning you because what you’ve seen on his arms are just the prelude. I’m practically unblemished compared to him. It’ll take you aback, but try not to stare, especially not at his back.”_

_“Wyatt…” Jess hisses. “You’re covered in scars! What to you mean unblemished in comparison!?”_

* * *

“That was a deeply uncomfortable experience,” Connor grumbles as they slide back into the boosted car. 

“You were a good distraction,” Flynn grins viciously, retwisting the ignition cables back together. “No one noticed Lucy walking out with her arms full of stolen goods.”

“The manager threatened to stick a hook under my ribs and string me up by it!” Connor protests. “And you just stood there and laughed!”

“Like I said, you were a good distraction!”

“Rufus darling,” Connor sighs. “Your taste in friends is deeply disturbing.”

“Aw, hear that Bandit? I’m a darling now and you’re deeply disturbing.”

“Truly an honour to be bestowed with,” he sniggers back.

* * *

The Gunther Hotel is right in the centre of San Antonio, taking up most of a block just by itself. 

Flynn has to drive round in circles for almost 10 minutes before they finally spot an empty space on the edge of the street to park in. Straightening his tie and jacket as he climbs out, he makes sure his new sunglasses are sitting straight and then dons his hat. 

“How long until Don Law arrives?” Lucy asks Connor as she tugs on a pair of delicate white gloves.

“Well I know the recording started at five past four in the afternoon,” Connor shrugs. “Seeing as we arrived before the mothership, we probably have at least until noon before Law shows, if not longer.”

“That means we’ve got a minimum of two hours to kill,” Flynn grunts as he checks the time on the screen of his cell.

“Oi!” Lucy protests, slapping his hands down. “Put that away before someone sees it!”

Amused, Flynn slips the device back into his pocket. 

“Honestly!” Lucy huffs indignantly. “Waving a smartphone around in the 1930s!”

“My watch strap is still broken,” he shrugs cheekily.

“That’s no excuse,” she grumbles at him, taking his arm as they start to walk. “You can just steal another one.”

“Oh, so looking at my legally owned cell phone is forbidden but thievery isn’t?”

“Stop trying to wind me up,” she grumbles through a smile. “Besides, pickpocketing is a profession as old as time. Fancy snatching us some cash while you’re at it?”

“If I must,” he sighs in a deliberately aggrieved manner.

“Well I’m starting to understand why Wyatt was so unremorseful over stealing all those mattresses and our bedding,” Connor shakes his head as he and Rufus follow them along the sidewalk. “Quite the little bunch of little criminals you are.”

“Oh you haven’t seen nothing yet,” Rufus laughs.

* * *

After helping themselves to some wallets, an unattended briefcase, and a pocket watch, they crowd into a little café that’s only a ten-minute walk from the hotel. The guy behind the counter tries to protest when Connor and Rufus enter, but Flynn flashes both his stolen colt handgun and his stolen FBI badge (thank you stolen briefcase), and the man glumly shuts up and glares in silence instead. 

_Take that segregation,_ Flynn thinks gleefully to himself. 

“How are we doing this then?” Lucy asks as she stirs a sugar cube into her coffee. “Do you think we’ll be dealing with sleepers, or do you think Emma or my mother will show up?”

“Sleepers probably,” Flynn grunts. “Easiest way in for them will have been to stick someone in the Hotel’s staff. What room are Johnson and Law going to be in Connor?”

“414 at the end of the hall.”

“So we try to book 413 or 415 then?” Lucy suggests. “And then wander around the hotel until someone recognises us or we spot something fishy?”

“You guys take one those rooms,” Rufus tells them. “If we steal some rings you can play at newlyweds running off from disapproving parents. Because ugh, how dare you marry a divorcee Lucy! And a foreign one at that!”

“We could swing that,” Flynn snorts. “What about you and Connor though?” 

“You’re my boss?” Rufus suggests tentatively. “Don’t know why I’d be with you on your honeymoon though.”

“I’m your boss,” Connor smirks. “Seeing as Flynn has that badge, I can probably get away with claiming to be British Intelligence.”

“Do we still need to be newlyweds then or can we just all claim to be agents?” Lucy ponders. “Though married couple is still the best way to get the adjacent room with minimal fuss.”

“Married 15 years, I brought you into the agency when I joined,” Flynn reels off. “We worked undercover in the last year of the great war together, which is how we met and why you have the skill set you do. Now that that Hoover has upgraded the bureau of investigations up to federal level, there’s been some hiring diversification too. We’re on a joint op with British Intelligence because…?” he trails off there, hoping someone else will fill in the gaps.

“Because Don Law has British dual citizenship,” Connor nods. “Rufus and I were in town for an entirely different reason, but then we picked up chatter that Law was being targeted for being white and choosing to work with a black man. We were on our way to alert the authorities when we ran into you. Now we’re working together.”

“Okay!” Lucy grins. “Let’s do it!”

* * *

They get the room they want with surprisingly minimal fuss, and quickly head up to it to deposit the empty suitcases they bought (yes Connor, _bought)._ That done, Rufus takes one of Flynn’s guns, and he and Connor head downstairs to snoop around the dining room and kitchen area.

Now, it’s a waiting game. 

“Flynn, come sit down,” Lucy smiles gently. “You’re pacing dear.”

Flynn stops in his tracks, spinning the ring on his finger in an endless anxious loop. 

“Sorry,” he eventually grunts. “Haven’t worn one of these since…” he doesn’t finish, but he can tell Lucy knows he means the wedding band. This one is slightly tarnished yellow gold, rather than the sterling silver and platinum his own was but-

“You can take it off if it’s making you uncomfortable,” she immediately informs him, regret and sympathy flashing across her face for a second. “Sorry, we should have thought before suggesting this whole marr-”

“No it’s fine,” he blurts over the top of her as he drops to sit beside her on the bed. “It’s hardly the first time we’ve claimed to be married for the sake of a mission.”

“You don’t have to wear a ring for that to be believed though,” she tells him softly. “Just keep it in your pocket and on the off chance anyone comments, you can pull it out and show them, claim you took it off while you were cleaning your gun or something.”

Flynn immediately tugs the ring off and shoves in next to his stolen wallet and badge. Then he breathes out a shaky breath, surprising even himself with how much relief he suddenly feels. 

“I was so angry when they took mine from me,” he whispers brokenly a minute later, thoughts spiralling. “And my photo. Stripped me down bare and took it all and shoved me alone in a cell to be forgotten about.”

“Hey, I’m working on getting it back for you okay?” Lucy mumbles into his hair, having put her arms around him and tugged him down to press his face into her shoulder. “I’ve got Agent Christopher on the case; she’s just waiting on the clearance to go through and then you’ll get both back.”

Flynn feels his head go light with an absolutely dizzying rush of gratefulness and doesn’t even try to stop the sob that tears out of his throat.

* * *

_“I’m trying to give you space, so this is the only time I’ll mention it,” Wyatt sighs, scrubbing at his face with both hands. “I’m sorry about you know, Jess being here and throwing a wrench in the works.”_

_“Hey, no problem!” Lucy says entirely too brightly; she can practically feel the insincerity oozing out of her pores. “You got your wife back from the dead Wyatt, I get how big a deal that is for you.”_

_“Are you sure?” he asks with a nervous look. “I don’t want this to be awkward for you.”_

_“Seriously, it’s fine,” Lucy lies. “She’s lovely, I can see why you chose- why you married her. Besides, I’ve got Flynn keeping me busy, keeping my mind off everything. He deserves all the attention I can give him, you know?”_

_“Yeah, poor guy’s real messed up. I’ll um, leave you to get back to him?”_

_Lucy watches Wyatt’s retreating back, and desperately wishes they’d managed to break Flynn out of jail sooner. If he’d been on the Hollywoodland mission with them, then maybe…_

_Maybe he would have been able to stop her from making such a huge mistake._

* * *

Rufus is not sure he likes having Connor in the field with them. All his life Connor has been the one in a position of power over him; first as his academic sponsor and mentor, and then as his boss. Now with Mason Industries completely liquidated, he’s not even his boss anymore.

And Rufus is the one with all the field experience. The role reversal is rather jarring and uncomfortable. 

“Come on,” he mumbles to the other man. “There’s nothing down here Connor, and none of the staff we’ve seen have so much as twitched when they’ve seen me. A sleeper would have freaked out or run off.”

 _“Might_ have freaked out or run off,” Connor insists on complaining. “A _good_ agent would have kept their cool and pretended all was well to not tip you off.”

“Well the Mothership’s now been here long enough for Rittenhouse to have had time to activate whoever it is, so we should head back upstairs anyway.”

“Fine,” Connor grumbles with a roll of his eyes. “Lead the way then I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEHOLD!!!
> 
> ART!
> 
> Thealocksly created this truly amazing piece which details [Flynn and Lucy's decorated room.](https://thealocksly.tumblr.com/post/618782678286745600/i-finally-finished-it-this-is-in-reference-to) Go give it a reblog, show your appreciation for such talent!  
> I slapped this together: [Couch Cuddles](https://insane-sociopath.tumblr.com/post/618835592749400064/you-are-not-a-puppet-of-the-universe-the)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for clarification, in this timeline Agent Christopher was kidnapped by Carol Preston following the Diwali dinner, _not_ during the JFK episode. Flynn did noticed the giant fuck-off bruise on her face, he was just to busy dreading going in the Lifeboat again to comment on it.

Flynn has been keeping watch for a good hour now, mindful to appear casual as he can. A difficult job when you’re sat staring down a hotel corridor through an open bedroom door, but he’s making do. He’s been careful not to sit right by the door, and to keep an open book in his hands so that it looks like he’s not paying attention to anything beyond the pages.

He’s seen Don Law come and go multiple times, each return bringing more equipment with him. He’s seen Connor and Rufus follow him at a surprisingly discrete distance the once, Rufus signalling an _A-Okay_ with the military hand gestures they’re all learning. And not 10 minutes ago, he saw Johnson arrive and slip into the room with a guitar case. 

Rufus and Connor are now in the room with him, sitting on the bed alongside Lucy and quietly discussing why Wyatt was held back from the mission. Flynn’s curious too; the fact that Christopher specifically wanted Wyatt probably indicates that Rittenhouse _has_ been up to no good. They were probably right, and Rittenhouse’s lack of jumps for more than a week was indicative of something occurring in the present. 

(He _had_ noticed the state of Christopher’s face before they left. Something had _definitely_ happened.)

Adjusting the angle he has his feet propped up at, he flicks another page over and surreptitiously watches as a man in a green-beige suite stalks towards him through hooded eyes. The guy pauses for a split second when he spots Flynn, but with his hat still on and the book in front of his face, Flynn’s not particularly recognisable. The man continues on, apparently dismissing him. Glancing around again he then reaches behind himself, pulling out a gun and-

“Sleeper!” Flynn hisses loudly, tossing aside the book and flowing to his feet in one smooth movement. 

He reaches the door in just two long strides.

The sleeper is so intent on kicking open the door to room 414 that he doesn’t even notice six foot of angry Slav coming up behind him with a loaded and armed weapon. 

Flynn barely has time to register Robert Johnson’s yell of surprise before he’s double tapping the Rittenhouse bastard. With two fatally placed bullets in him, the sleeper agent slumps to the floor, dead as -as they say in English - a doornail. 

“What the holy hell!” Law shouts in horror.

Flynn moves forward to double check that the asshole he shot is as dead as he looks.

“I am Taylor Swift, the is Agent Timberlake,” Lucy announces, following Flynn into the room. “We’re part of the new FBI.”

“Hoo- Hoover’s hiring women now!?” Johnson stutters while Flynn tries not to laugh at Lucy’s ridiculous choice of aliases. He _had_ laughed earlier when she’d jokingly suggested them.

In other news, yes; this sleeper has definitely shuffled off his mortal coil. Flynn nudges the body with the toe of his leather shoe again just for good measure, but without a pulse, he can already confirm the obvious.

“The agency is reorganising, diversifying,” Lucy replies coolly, steel in her spine.

“Oh, with negroes!?” Law scoffs, still disbelieving despite the groups assured manner. 

“I’m Lando Calrissian,” Connor steps up with an easy smile while Flynn flicks on his safety and fishes for his badge. “British Intelligence. Kenya station. His majesty sends his regards?” 

Law still doesn’t look convinced, but he shakes Connor’s hand anyway and then nods.

“Right, we shall remove the deceased and you gentlemen can continue doing… whatever it was you were doing,” Connor continues with what he probably thinks is a winning smile.

“Remove the deceased!” Law yells incredulously. “Are you mad!”

“That ofay just tried to kill us and you want us to pretend like it didn’t happen?” Johnson protests too. 

“No, no,” Lucy interjects. “Slight misunderstanding here. You weren’t the targets.”

“He was after Mr Boyega over there,” Flynn points towards Rufus, throwing in his lot and making a story up on the fly. With his stolen badge now in hand and visible, it might even be believable. “But our dead friend down here is apparently as blind as he is stupid and apparently can’t tell one coloured man from another.”

“So you tryin’ to sell this as all some big misunderstanding!?” Johnson protests. Apparently _not_ believable then… “He was pointin’ his gun right at me!”

“That’s right, he was,” Law bites out accusingly. “He knew where he was going, he didn’t come in here by accident!”

“Now hold on Mr Law!” Johnson stammers. “I don’t know who in the hell that is or- or was! Come on now!”

“Ha!” Law shakes his head as he angrily stomps over to the body. “They warned me! They said _Donald, don’t record with Johnson, he’s cursed!_ And the proof of that pudding is in the eating!”

And then Law and Johnson go and get into a tiff, going for each other with fists and biting words.

And then while Connor is talking Law down, Johnson up and vanishes.

Flynn sighs and groans, annoyed that smaller man managed to slip behind him without him noticing.

* * *

Connor and Rufus go after Robert Johnson, leaving Lucy and Flynn to wrangle Law. 

Flynn’s first job is to remove the body of the sleeper from the room. Thankfully, having shot in the back and fallen forward, there’s no pool of blood forming underneath him, which at least makes things a little easier. 

“You sure you don’t need a hand?” Lucy asks him quietly as he lifts the man’s shirt and jams a couple of pillowcases into the bullet wounds to stop his own suit from becoming blood stained while he moves him. 

“No I got it,” Flynn grunts. “You stay with Law and make sure he doesn’t bail too. If all of us have to go running around down, things will get messy fast.”

“Alright,” Lucy nods softly, resting a gloved hand against his neck for a second. “Don’t hesitate to come fetch me if anything crops up okay?”

“Not for a second,” Flynn winks back, patting her hand twice before stooping down to pick up the body. The with it safely draped over one shoulder in a fireman’s carry, he heads for the door.

“I’ll be back in five,” he reassures one last time. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“I won’t be doing most of what you _would_ do either thanks,” she laughs, waving him away. 

He double checks the hall, and then darts for the back service stairwell.

* * *

Flynn finds a row of open-top dumpster in an alley the next block over. It was quite a feat, getting across the main street without anyone noticing him, but he managed it.

Setting it down temporarily between two of the metal crates – which don’t yet have wheels in this age – he looks around again and spots a broom leaning on a wall, and what he hopes are empty wooden fruit crates. 

Using the broom, he scoops out the top layer of refuse out of the emptiest trash container into three of the crates. Then standing on a fourth that he’s upturned, he quickly hoists the body in. Double checking that he’s still unobserved, he then tips the scooped out trash back in over the body, spreads it out with the broom, and then tosses all four crates in too.

The broom goes back to its place leaning on the wall. 

Satisfied that he hasn’t gotten any blood on himself, he then heads out of the alley at the opposite end to he came in and heads up the new street he comes out onto parallel to the Hotel. Snatching another wallet just because he can on the way, it’s only 20 minutes before he’s sneaking back in through a service door and heading back to Law’s room.

When he arrives though, Lucy is on her own. 

“Hey, everything go okay?” she asks as she hurries over. “Law’s gone to grab some spare parts to fix his equipment with, but he’s definitely coming back.”

Flynn tosses his hat and glasses onto the back sideboard and then shrugs his jacket off, starting to unbutton his shirt sleeves so he can wash his hands properly. 

“By the time somebody finds the body we’ll be long gone,” he nods as he rolls his sleeves up. “And even if we’re not, they won’t have anyway of tracing it back to us.”

“Where did you hide it?” Lucy asks curiously.

“Do you really want to know?” he chuckles as she follows him into the attached bathroom suite. “It’s not like I disposed of it gracefully.”

“He was Rittenhouse,” Lucy grimaces. “No love lost there.”

“Eh,” Flynn shrugs as he splashes water up his forearms and then grabs the bar of soap. “Someone will find him and bury him properly eventually. Everything go alright here while I was gone?”

“Like I said, Law has just gone to grab some spare parts,” she repeats as she reaches for one of the hand towels. “I talked him into doing the recording, so we’ll have no issues on this end. I just hope Rufus and Connor manage okay.”

Flynn takes the towel in silence, lost in thought for a moment.

“Rufus knows what he’s doing,” he replies eventually as they head back into the main room. “You and Wyatt taught him well.”

“You’ve been teaching him as well,” she corrects mildly, helping him to reverse the process of rolling his sleeves up. “Besides, nearly being hanged, stabbed, and burnt to death aside, these missions have been pretty fun recently.”

“Chicago was not fun,” he snorts with a grin. “But you have to admit it; _I_ am more fun on these missions than Wyatt, right?”

She splutters a laugh and her forehead drops against the front of his shoulder. Slowly, feeling very unsure, he brings his arms up and wraps them around her. 

“Is um, is this okay?” he asks haltingly, letting his chin rest on the top of her head.

“Course it is,” she chuckles into his lapel. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well,” he blushes, feeling like a right fool. “Bit of a reversal of our usual roles right? Me holding you instead of the other way round.”

“That has got to be the first time any man has ever worried about that,” she snorts, pulling back slightly to look up at him. “Toxic masculinity, thy name is decidedly _not_ Garcia Flynn.”

Flynn shrugs awkwardly. He’s never been one for following any of society’s other unwritten rules, so why not disregard these ones too?

“Question,” Lucy suddenly says, patting his lapels and stepping back. “And you don’t have to answer. But how much of this was in my journal? You and I, I mean. The room sharing and the closeness.”

“Um,” Flynn shrugs awkwardly again. “I’m increasingly sure that what I read was from a previous timeline that we’re no longer following. Most of your um, mannerisms and habits are the same as I expected, as are your experiences from your childhood and student days – I think anyway, we haven’t talked about those much. But ah, once I took the mothership, things started going… awry? I only ever had notes and brief descriptions, sketches to go off, but you never quite… reacted in the ways I was expecting.”

“So less like we’re actors following a script, and more…” she trails off, gesturing with her hands instead. 

“We are not puppets for the universe to push around,” Flynn quotes with a nod. “Instead _we are_ the universe, and the universe is us… I think Lucy, that every little decision you and I have made since we met before the burning wreckage of the Hindenburg has been pushing us further way from the timeline written in the journal.”

“So to answer my original question then, there’s not much about us. This. Now.” She gestures between the two of them.

Flynn shakes his head. 

“I um. You never wrote about me being arrested,” he sighs, rubbing at one eye socket with the heel of his hand. “I think that was the final tipping point that landslided the changes but… I did team up with you, that much was clear, but I think it happened earlier in the journal timeline. Not that there was actually any real indication of when it happened or why… But no. you didn’t really write much about me at all, other than that I was there and that you didn’t like me very much for quite a long time.”

“I bet other you won other me over eventually though,” she chuckles, stepping backwards and perching on the edge of the bed. 

Flynn huffs with a grin and doesn’t answer verbally. He’s sure his facial expression is enough. 

“We’re not them though,” he clears his throat. “And while I know a lot _about_ you, I don’t _know_ you. Not yet anyway.”

“I think you know me better than you think,” she smiles coyly at him. 

Flynn bites his bottom lip and takes a step forward.

And then jumps what feel like six foot when there’s a knock on the door and a damn bell hop with a message bursts in.

* * *

They pack up the equipment left in the room quickly, moving around each other with ease. Once it’s stacked neatly by the door, Flynn grabs his hat and his glasses, and they go to meet Law outside. They’ve just spotted his truck pulling up outside, the growing darkness settling quickly over the city having freed up parking spaces close to the building.

They converge in the main stairwell between floors two and three. 

“Oh, Don!” Lucy calls out as she spots him climbing the stairs, box in hand. “Don’t bother coming up. We’re gonna go over to Johnson’s sister’s place and record there. We’ll grab the rest of your stuff.”

“Oh, Carrie’s Juke Joint.” Law nods. “Yeah, we was looking for him there last week.”

“We…?” Lucy asks confused. Flynn too, was under the impression that Law worked alone, so who could he-?

_Jebati!_

He grabs Lucy and spins both of them behind the wall as bullets suddenly start to fly. Keeping one arm around her waist and her back securely pressed against his chest, he pulls his own gun out and flicks the safety off, checking that it’s racked with one hand. 

There’s a loud thud and the firing stops.

“Don!?” he calls out alarmed as he cautiously peers round the corner, hand raised in order to return fire. But Law is lying face down on the stairs, the crate he was carrying upended and it’s contents piled before it.

_Jebati, jebati, jebati!_

“Stay here,” he pants to Lucy, handing her his second gun and then throwing himself around the corner in panic. 

Even as he hears the clicks and ratcheting of her checking it, he knows they’re too late.

“Don!?” Lucy calls herself as Flynn skids to a stop and squats down next to the man. 

Flynn shakes his head.

“There was another sleeper agent!” he gasps at her, adrenaline surging through his veins. 

“And we just sent her straight to Rufus and Mason,” Lucy groans.

* * *

They don’t have the time to deal with poor Don’s body, not when they have a second sleeper to chase down and stop. Lucy hurries back to room 414 to grab the two boxes of recording equipment while Flynn scoops all the spare parts back into the crate and, as respectfully as he can, rifles through Law’s pockets for the keys to his truck.

Within five minutes they’re hastily stowing all of the equipment in the truck bed and then pulling out onto the main road.

“Um, left up ahead, and then right at the end of the street,” Lucy directs as Flynn breaks several traffic laws. She’s got a map, and is comparing it to the instructions Rufus passed on. 

“We should have known there’d be more than one sleeper,” Flynn sighs aggrieved as he makes the left with a squeal of tires. “There were four planted for JFK, and god knows how many in Chicago.”

“Johnson is a fairly easy target in comparison though,” Lucy rationalises. “Killing one man is a lot simpler to do than to wipe an entire city off the map.”

Flynn makes the right turn too, and then the road they’re on is clearly heading out of town. The number of buildings reduce as they trundle along as fast as he dares with all the gear in the back, and the streetlights begin to peter out until they’re driving along in total darkness.

Feeling extremely on edge, Flynn flicks the radio on, grateful when Lucy drops her hand over his on the manual stick shift. 

“The sleeper should only be a few minutes ahead of us,” she reassures. 

“Yeah, but she knows these roads much better than we do,” Flynn shakes his head. 

Trying to distract himself, he starts humming along to the radio.

“My wife used to sing this song,” he mutters after a minute or so, aware that Lucy is watching him with a soft look. “I ah. I know things about you from the journal. I think- I think it would be fair if I… exchanged the same sort of details about myself.”

“My mother used to sing it too,” she smiles gently. 

“Lorena would lie on the couch humming it,” he continues wistfully. “It actually used to bother me, drive me nuts. Now it’s the little details like that which I miss the most. The pranks she pulled, her icy feet at night, the smell of her hair.” 

“My sister…” Lucy offers in return. “She had this strawberry scented shampoo. When we were little she’d get scared at night, so she’d crawl into my bed and, and snuggle into me. Her hair right up against my nose.” She pauses and lets out a small chuckle. “I’d dream all night about strawberry milkshakes.”

“I never… I didn’t intend for that to happen,” Flynn admits gruffly. “Your sister disappearing. I- I never wanted to hurt you Lucy.”

“I know Flynn,” she smiles ruefully. “But… we’re never getting them back, are we? The people we’re love are gone.”

“Only if we give up hope,” Flynn shrugs. “I _know_ somehow, some way… we’ll manage it one day.”

“Wait. You already knew from the journal that my mother sang that song, didn’t you?” she suddenly snorts. 

Flynn grins guiltily. 

“Well I didn’t know the reason why your hair always smells of strawberries until now?” he licks his lips. “I don’t know _everything_ about you.”

“Just most of it,” she grins.

“Journal Lucy was very impressive,” he laughs, thinking of how he’d spent hours and hours pouring of that damn book, memorising it because of her. “And so are you.”

* * *

_“You know, he’s nothing like I thought he would be,” Lucy muses to Denise, both of them buttering bread to make sandwiches for everyone. “And I don’t just mean his silent lurking or the way he sleeps entirely in three-hour snatches at completely irregular intervals.”_

_“Loosing a partner like he did is terrible,” Denise sighs. “But loosing a child like that? I can’t imagine the pain and horror. And then to be blamed for it? Framed? It doesn’t excuse his actions, but I get it. I think I’d have gone off the rails too.”_

_“No I mean,” Lucy shakes her head. “That part I get. The violence, the lashing out. Being lost in the seething hatred. Even the chronic depression and the way he just shuts down sometimes, I anticipated that. It’s the other side of him I wasn’t expecting. He’s… incredibly gentle. Protective. Like he’s suddenly decided somethings are worth caring for after all and he’s determined to be worthy of them.”_

_She pauses, staring off at an unseen horizon._

_“And by god, his sense of humour is razor sharp. I think Rufus is in heaven, the way those two carry on,” she finishes with a smile. “I know you can’t stand him Denise, but I think I like him? I really do.”_

* * *

Rufus notices the way Robert Johnson pauses on his way out of the bar, his head titled back in shock. 

He’s moving before the woman he’s staring at has even pulled the gun out.

Throwing himself at the sleeper, he slams her gun arm off to the side, using his other arm to shove Johnson backwards. She kicks out at him, an expression of rage filling her face, but Rufus instinctively grabs it and twists, surprising even himself. 

She looses balance, and Rufus throws a punch at her, leaning in with his shoulder to stop her from being able to right herself. She staggers, forced to brace herself on her back foot. But her other hand is already coming back round, and Rufus’ eyes wide in horror as her gun turns to point at him.

He slams his forearm against hers, trying to divert the bullet’s trajectory before the triggers been pulled again and-

There’s a shot and Rufus flinches, bracing for the pain he knows is coming…

The woman’s hand goes slack and she drops her gun, her eyes rolling up into her skull.

The pain doesn’t come.

“Thanks Bandit,” he gasps as he lets go of the woman and lets her slide limply to the floor. 

“Wasn’t me,” Flynn grimaces, his eyes looking past Rufus.

And when Rufus turns to look. There is Connor.

Gun still raised and the very picture of shell shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might fuck around, might change this story's summary 🤔


	23. Chapter 23

After.

After Rufus has talked Mason into getting his shit together. After Mason has in turn convinced Robert Johnson to sit down and actually make history. After they’ve hauled all the equipment in and set it up per Mason’s instructions.

After.

That is when Flynn finds himself sat at a back table, two fingers of Carrie’s finest whiskey in one hand and Lucy’s fingers wrapped around the other. 

He can feel the wedding ring she’s wearing, a warm metal band pressed against his knuckles.

Flynn has never been much of a fan of jazz or blues or swing or any of the other similar genres of music, but just because he hasn’t ever paid an active interest in it doesn’t mean he can recognise brilliance when he sees it. Flynn, like the majority of European military men of the 1980s onwards, quickly fell in love with all things rock and metal (Metallica… now there’s a band and a half), but damn, this Robert Johnson really knows how to play.

And he’s got the vocal talent to match. 

Nodding along to the beat with a grin, Flynn lets himself relax and simply enjoy himself.

* * *

It takes a good few of hours for Johnson to play his way through all his tracks and for Mason to meticulously record them all. By which time it’s far enough into the night that you could more accurately call it early morning. 

Flynn is fucking exhausted.

If they’d arrived just after the mothership, at about half two local time, then they’d have been here about thirteen hours now. But they jumped more than four hours earlier to give themselves time to scout around and acquire clothes. So it’s actually been closer to eighteen hours. And the jump alarm didn’t go off until quarter to noon in their present, so add on another four hours since he and Lucy crawled out of his bed...

Yeah, basically they’ve all been up for twenty-four hours straight and only had time to stop and grab a bite to eat once since breakfast.

And he’s been drinking quite steadily for the last five hours too, Carrie regularly topping up his and Lucy’s glasses off in exchange for the contents of all their stolen wallets. 

Okay so he’s fucking exhausted and pretty fucking drunk.

And surprisingly okay with it. Despite the tiredness, he feels damn great right now.

Eventually Mason decides the recordings are done and starts to take the recording equipment apart. Rufus, having declared himself _designated driver_ jumps to help him, and Flynn distantly thinks he should probably do the same.

But Lucy’s shoulder is so comfortable and he’s so warm and pleasantly lightheaded.

_She’s holding his hand!!!_

He reaches out for his glass instead and tips the remaining inch back, sighing in satisfaction when it slides down his throat with a pleasant burn. Resettling his head, he watches Rufus with hazy eyes and a dopey smile.

He likes Rufus. Rufus is funny.

Scratch that, Rufus is _hilarious._

“Rufus is so hilarious,” he tells Lucy, sticking his nose against her neck for a second. He knows why she always smells of strawberries now, which is a truly fantastic thing for him to know. 

“I like Wyatt’s lime shampoo,” he also tells her. “Gonna nick it when we get home.”

“I’m sure he’d just give it to you if you asked Flynn,” Lucy chuckles. 

“Strawberries and lime,” he smiles up at her. “Like the- the- imported cider. From Sweden.”

“Rekorderlig?” she snorts. 

“We’re a cider,” he chuckles as he nods.

“If you say so dear.”

“I do say so!” he insists with a grin, half away that his accent is thickening by the second. “Can’t drink lime on its own cause it’s all bitter. But when you put in with the strawberry. Boom, magic! You make me less bitter. You make me good.”

“Christ, even when he’s fall-down drunk, he’s an eloquent bastard,” Rufus smirks, strolling up to them with his hands in his pockets and his hat at a jaunty angle.

“I’m not drunk!” Flynn protests, drunkenly.

“Sure,” Rufus snorts. “Connor says we need to take the vinyl originals back to the production company and then we can clear out.”

“I’m not drunk!” Flynn whines again. 

“Right okay then,” Lucy nods. “Let’s get all this gear stowed back into Law’s truck and then you and Connor can head to the studio or offices or whatever. I’ll take Flynn back to the hotel seeing as we technically paid for our room for the full night. Police should have moved Law’s body by now and cleared the crime scene, so we shouldn’t have any problem getting back in.”

“Yeah, he needs to sleep this off…” Rufus bites his lip in amusement.

“Who’s he?” Flynn slurs. “The cat’s mother? M’right here, don’t third- third person me.”

“We’re sorry sweetie, we’ll stop,” Lucy soothes him, dropping a kiss on his brow.

“Mmmm do that again,” he grins sloppily. “I like it.”

She laughs and obliges him, her lips once again pressing softly just above his hair line on his right side. 

“You’re so pretty,” he sighs longingly. “One day I’ll be not so bad inside and able to tell you that.”

“Flynn you’re not bad inside,” she insists with a frown, leaning back slightly and making him look into her beautiful eyes.

“Yes I am!” he protests, pulling back. “I hurt you! And Rufus! And- and-! John Rittenhouse! He was just a boy and I- o moj Bože, I almost shot him! I almost murdered a ten-year-old!”

“You were in a bad place and doing bad things,” Lucy tells him sternly, pulling him back to lean on her chest. “That does not make _you_ bad. I want you to try and remember that okay?”

“M’kay,” he nods, pushing into the hand in his hair. “But I _am_ all wrong in the head.”

“Flynn, really you’re not-”

“But that’s okay,” he mumbles over the top of her. “Lorena always said it was okay to be not well s’long as you try to get better, even if you’re not good at the getting better part. I miss her so much Lucy.”

“I know Flynn,” Lucy breathes into his hair as the tears come siletly again. “I know darling.”

* * *

Connor and Rufus take the truck with Johnson, promising to meet them back at the hotel when they’ve dropped everything off. How they’re going to explain why they have all of Law’s equipment when Law himself is dead, Flynn has no idea.

Flynn’s a bit beyond caring about that right now though.

Slowly, with Lucy’s help, he staggers over to the other car. The ground keeps moving beneath his feet which is very rude of it, but eventually he makes his way to it and tips himself into the back seats. 

There’re no seatbelts which makes Lucy tut, but again. He’s really not bothered right now.

“Okay well. Stay lying down please,” she sighs as she pushes his legs in, insisting that he can’t leave them hanging over the top of the door. 

Flynn’s pretty sure he couldn’t sit back up if he wanted too, so it’s a moot point really. Is he using that phrase right? Croatian sayings and idioms are so much easier. 

“I will be a good boy,” he tells her, giving her a double thumbs up. She shakes her head at him fondly and then climbs into the driver’s seat.

“It’s a good thing Rufus already got the engine on this running or we’d be here a while,” he hears her mutter. “I’m starting to get the gun thing down, put the hotwiring remains beyond me.”

“I will teach you,” Flynn declares grandly. “And in return you can. Um. I want to know how to paint my nails.” 

“Your nails?” Lucy turns to laugh at him as she puts the car in reverse and checks the mirrors.

“Uh-huh,” he nods eagerly, his eyes feeling heavy. “Iris used to love doing mine. Want to do them again for her.”

“Sure Flynn, I can show you how to do them,” she tells him softly. 

“Lucy? You’re the best, you know.” He slurs heavily. “I think that’s why I’m in…”

He passes out.

* * *

His head is still pleasantly swimming when Lucy makes him get back up and get redressed, though he can sense his impending return to sobriety. The bed was pretty damn comfortable, and he was out of it enough that he doesn’t recall actually getting in it. He doesn’t recall a lot of things actually. 

“Here, you’ll need this dude,” Rufus huffs in amusement as he shoves a mug of coffee under his nose. “You are going to hate yourself and everything in the world pretty soon.”

“Rufus,” he grins sloppily, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “I already hate myself so I’m already halfway there!”

“Will you not say that like it’s a good thing man?” Rufus winces at him as he takes the mug.

* * *

Flynn is still in extremely good spirits when the Lifeboat whirls to a stop, happily riding out the last of his drunken high. There’s even enough alcohol still left in his system to cushion the usual nausea the time machine gives him. 

He’s grinning as he follows Lucy down the steps. 

“Oh my gosh Jiya, you should have seen it,” Lucy gushes, her plum coloured jacket slung over her arm and her hair loose around her face. “It was amazing!”

“Mason was something truly to behold,” Flynn grins too, his hand raised and his first finger touching his thumb to form a circle.

“Sounds like you guys had fun, huh?” Jiya drawls

“Ah well, that all depends though,” Connor practically bounces. “Were there hippies in the sixties and a- and a band called Led Zeppelin?”

“Duh,” Jiya laughs.

“Ha! You did it Connor! Nice!” Rufus crows.

And then Connor is hugging everyone, him included. Flynn lets it happen with a sort of drunken giddy glee, and then turns to give Jiya a hug too.

“Dude are you drunk?” Jiya snorts incredulously as she lets him pull her into his arms. 

“Oh he’s so very drunk still,” Lucy snorts. “However, he’s practically sober in comparison to last night.”

“Oh, way to go dude!” Jiya laughs, patting his back companionly.

“Please do not encourage him,” Lucy sighs good-naturedly. “Come on, we should clean up and get some proper sleep.

“Lucy’s taking me to bed now,” he stage whispers to Jiya with a wink. “I’ve been a good boy so maybe I’ll get a treat?”

“Okay then!” Lucy says loudly, grabbing his arm and steering him away. “We’ll um, see you guys at a more reasonable hour?”

Jiya waves them away with another laugh.

* * *

Flynn starts undressing on his own, as Wyatt had appeared dressed in full tact-gear as they were skipping down the corridor towards their room (theirs! He gets to share with Lucy!).

Flynn had been curious about what Wyatt wanted to tell Lucy alone, but even with half his brain happily off in la-la-land, he can respect people’s need for privacy every now and again. 

Besides Lucy will come join him in a few minutes anyway.

He gets his tie stuck on his ears as he tries to pull it off without undoing it all the way and swears colourfully in a mixture of languages. Deciding to abandon that task for a minute, he instead kicks off his shoes and then fumbles with his button and zipper until he’s able to pull his pants off. His vest comes off next, the buttons larger and therefore easier to tackle, but he’s only managed to wrestle half of his shirt buttons into submission, and his tie is still stuck across the middle of his face when Lucy slides in through the wide-open door.

“May I beggeth of your assistance, my fairest lady?” he giggles, trying to bow. 

“Garcia Flynn, you are an unholy menace,” she shakes her head at him. 

But she gets him stripped down to just his boxers and doesn’t protest when he pulls her into the bed with him, despite the fact she’s fully dressed.

* * *

When he wakes again, he has a raging headache. 

“Mrzim sve o meni,” he groans, pressing his face into his pillow. “Doće maca na vratanca.”

A cool hand lands on the back of his neck, and he sighs gratefully. It feels pretty great.

“I’m pretty sure I understood that despite not speaking a word of Croatian,” Lucy chuckles softly. “I want to die and I have so many regrets?”

“S’about the gist of it yeah,” he moans.

“Jess brought some Advils and a bottle of blue Powerade for you,” she whispers. “If you sit up, I’ll grab them from the desk for you.”

“Effort,” he grunts, not moving.

“Come on,” Lucy insists gently. “It’ll only take a minute.”

He grumbles, but doesn’t resist when she sticks her hands under his shoulders and starts to pull him more upright.

Actually getting sat up is a painful and tedious process; he’s not as young as he once was and he really did take it too far with the booze. In fact, he hasn’t drunk even close to that much since São Paulo, when he’d been planning on putting a-

Nope, not thinking about that.

“There, done,” Lucy smiles warmly, helping him to slide back onto his back. “Do you want anything else? If you think you can keep it down, you should have some dry toast or some crackers.”

“You shouldn’t be bein’ nice to me,” he grumbles. “Don’t deserve it. Was an idiot. Paying for it now.”

“You had fun last night and you deserved to enjoy yourself,” she shakes her head at him. “I’m not paying party to your needless guilty conscience.”

“No sympathy for self-inflicted misery.”

“What did I literally just say,” she scolds him lightly. “Now go back to sleep. I’m bringing you food for when you’re next awake.”

He sighs in resignation, knowing that he’s not getting out of Lucy’s nurse-maiding. To be fair to her, Flynn knows he’d be similarly stubborn about looking after _her_ if their roles were reversed. 

“Stay until then?” he mumbles as he lets his eyes close again, shutting out the stinging light. “Please?”

“Yeah, yeah I can do that,” Lucy smiles, climbing over him and then settling with the side of her legs pressed up against his back, her hand in his hair.

* * *

Dinner that night is the Chinese takeaway that Agent Christopher brought with her, having finished doing whatever post-Rittenhouse-assault clean up she’d been involved with. Flynn, still feeling rather rough, picks listlessly at it even more than he usually does.

Lucy passes him a glass of water, a cereal bar, and a bottle of multivitamins and iron instead, and then grabs his hand and pulls him to the couch.

Pretty soon the rest of the team join them, Wyatt and Jess snuggling up opposite, while Rufus and Jiya share with Connor. Christopher eyes their placement critically, and then rolls her eyes with an unintelligible mumble before striding over with determination, lifting Flynn’s sprawled out legs and sitting down under them such that his knees are bridged over her lap. 

“You better not shuffle,” she grumbles as Flynn stares slightly gobsmacked. “Now what are we watching?”

“The one with the whales!” Jiya proclaims gleefully, having claimed control of the remotes. 

“Oh no,” Rufus groans emphatically. “Please, anything but that!”

“What the one with the whales?” Lucy whispers to Flynn, clearly trying to not be overheard by their resident nerds.

“Star Trek,” he mumbles back. 

Lucy frowns. So far she’s managed to avoid being involved in that side of Jiya’s geekdom, and she’s probably wondering how she can continue that streak.

“It’s actually pretty good,” Christopher adds quietly. “Vhere are zee nuclear wessles?”

“Heh,” Lucy chuckles. “You sounded like Flynn there.”

“Did not,” Flynn grumbles, crossing his arms on his chest as Jiya and Rufus continue bickering playfully. “I can pronounce the letter W.”

“I know,” Lucy grins down at him, “You’re all deep, long vowels and soft J’s.”

“Luuuuucy,” he draws out teasingly, knowing exactly what she means. He’s never been able to correct it as he can’t hear the difference himself, but enough people have pointed it out to him for him to know roughly what parts of his speech form his accent. 

“Unless you sit down right now Rufus, I will put on The Motion Picture instead!” Jiya declares hotly while Flynn and Lucy laugh at each other. “And I won’t let you skip through the space dock scene!”

“More Star Trek?” Lucy asks tiredly.

“Yep,” Flynn pops. “And that space dock scene really does go on forever.”

* * *

There’s a knock on the door, a loud metallic clanging.

Flynn opens his eyes to find himself flat on his back and Lucy half lying on top of him.

“Wassup?” he mumbles groggily, lifting his head to peer blearily at the doorway. Lucy also stirs, the arm she has slung across his chest tightening for a second.

“Sorry,” Wyatt rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s um, it’s after 8:30. You guys need to get up for breakfast and training.”

“Hnnng,” Flynn acknowledges, dropping his head back onto his pillow. He really does not want to get up.

“Just give us ten,” Lucy yawns, her fingers now absently skimming in circles over a cluster of shrapnel wound scars on his right pectoral. 

“Right. Ten. Yes,” Wyatt stutters. Flynn listens listlessly to the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps, and then lets his eyes slide shut again.

“No, don’t go back to sleep,” Lucy teases, jamming her fingers into his ribs on both sides. “We have work to do lazy bones.” 

Flynn squirms with a whine and wonders how this has become his life. Waking up with Lucy Preston in his arms and smile on his face.

* * *

_“Hey, so I know I’ve been jokingly calling Flynn an assassin for weeks now, but damn! Did you see the way he left those three bodies!?”_

_Wyatt nods emphatically. While he’d been walking Jack Kennedy back to school and handing him over to the headmaster, Rufus had stayed back with Flynn to move the dead sleepers to the side of the sheds, away from the Lifeboat._

_He’d seen the precise bullet holes in all of them, and the sizeable branch skewered in the side of one when he’d come back._

_“He can precision double tap better than some pro-marksmen I’ve worked with,” Wyatt gushes, aware that he’s military fanboying a little. “I bet he doesn’t even need to sight between shots, which is technically a hammer not a double tap but… Look it’s very impressive, is what I’m saying.”_

_“I’m hearing lots of gun words,” Rufus nods with a smirk. “All I know is our newly acquired sneaky-boy has some serious skills and I should stop saying assassin like it’s not actually true.”_

* * *

“Are we _sure_ they’re not boning!?” Wyatt hisses to him, his face beet red. “I just walked in on them like, full on snuggling in bed and Flynn’s shirt was definitely off!”

“They’re not boning,” Rufus deadpans back. “Seriously, they’re not. They’re just… very affectionate?”

“Lucy was practically rubbing his nipples in front on me!” Wyatt moans. “I know Jess came back unexpectedly and all, but still!” 

“Oh really dude!?” Rufus scoffs as he pulls out the training mats and lays them out where the kitchen tables usually sit. “You’re gonna make this about your own relationship drama!?”

“Aw come on man,” Wyatt snaps. “It’s not like I can just switch my feelings off! Yeah, I’m the one who bailed on what Lucy and I were building, but it’s not like I had a _choice!”_

“Yes you did.” Rufus stabs back angrily. “It wasn’t a pleasant or fair choice, but you made it. You _chose_ to try and repair your marriage. Yeah, you don’t remember it getting that way, but you and Jessica? You were on the rocks. She handed you divorce papers within 4 hours of you finding her, and if you were serious about getting with Lucy, that was your ticket to do that. You didn’t take it, so you don’t get to complain when she moves on too.”

Wyatt sighs deeply, his eyes confrontational despite Rufus being deadly serious. He’ll say it again if he needs to, in even harsher words; Wyatt’s not his only friend involved in this, and he’s not obligated to take his side because of that.

“I just…” Wyatt grumbles. “I just wish they’d be more discrete.”

“Discrete!?” Rufus yells high pitched. “You and Jess have been waking the whole damn bunker night and day with your- your bedroom antics! And you’re the one who walked into their damn room when they were sleeping!”

“Hey! I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Pull your head out of your ass Wyatt! If there was a word for someone worse thaan a raging hypocrite, I’d be using it now!”

“But it’s different with them!” Wyatt insists just as loudly. “It’s not like there’s love involved-!”

He cuts off as a mug is dropped, shattering loudly on the concrete. 

Rufus closes his eyes, already knowing exactly who he’s going to find standing right behind them with a mortified and shellshocked expression. God fucking dammit Wyatt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know where to start. This whole chapter is just a giant emotional disaster.


	24. Chapter 24

Flynn is puttering around their room, looking for his burgundy turtleneck sweater when Lucy comes storming in and slams the door loudly behind her with a violent wrench. 

“Lucy!?” he splutters in concern as she crawls half under her bed, her face the very expression of heartbreak. She doesn’t answer, and he grows even more worried when she emerges with a bottle of cheap vodka and immediately uncaps it and take a very large swig.

“Lucy!” he protests louder as her swigging turns to chugging. Darting forward, he drops to sit on the floor beside her. But instead of trying to take the bottle from her, he simply pulls her with shaking hands to sit on his lap, her face buried in his chest.

He only manages to get one arm around her before she bursts into loud hiccupping sobs and one of her hands claws into his grey t-shirt with a death-grip. 

“što se dogodilo ljubavi?” he mumbles softly into the top of her hair. “Koga bih trebao povrijediti za tebe?”

She doesn’t reply, only sobs harder.

He keeps mumbling nonsense in a mixture of English and Croatian, saving the more intimate phrases for the language he knows she doesn’t understand. His arms stay wrapped around her, his nose pressed against the crown of her head, and he keeps steadily swaying slowly from side to side.

When his legs have gone entirely numb and his voice is starting to rasp. When his hand aches from gently rubbing up and down her back.

That’s when Lucy slumps entirely against him and she finally begins to quieten. 

“M’sorry,” she mumbles into the damp patch on his shirt another couple of minutes later. 

“No need to be,” he shakes his head, his hand still not stilling. “You want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head, her face rubbing against his chest with the moving.

“It was just… straw on the camel’s back,” she then says gruffly anyway. “Losing Amy, finding out I’m Rittenhouse and them kidnapping me, chasing them through time constantly. And then my own mother trying to get me hanged, the hellscape of escaping Chicago… This- Wyatt- just one thing too many.”

“Him and Jessica again huh?” he asks quietly. “I’ll talk to them, force them to be more discrete from now on.” The idea of potentially drawing his teammates ire is terrifying, but he’ll do it for Lucy. He’ll weather Wyatt’s rage a thousand times if it makes Lucy’s life even a fractional amount easier. 

“It wasn’t that,” Lucy hiccups, her grip around him tightening for a long second again. “He- it’s what he said. What… Just now he- I thought he- and- and- but he _doesn’t_ and now-”

Flynn feels his blood rush cold.

If Lucy wants to choose Wyatt over him, then he absolutely won’t stop her. He’ll stand aside and let her go. But he doesn’t-

He doesn’t _want_ that.

It’s the first time he’s admitted it to himself, here with the woman he lo- her, in his arms. On the brink of her quite possibly walking away from him, going back to-

“How could he _say_ that!” Lucy gasps wetly again. “What we have absolutely _is_ real!”

And there it is.

What she and Wyatt have is still very real, even with Jessica in the picture. 

“I’ve chosen, just like he did,” she cries harder again. “And that choice is just as important as his was!”

“Do you want me to go fetch him?” Flynn says quietly, not wanting to let her go, but absolutely willing to if that’s what _she_ wants. Flynn would hand the world on a plate to Lucy if she only asked; helping her patch up a battered relationship, even if one half of the equation is married to someone else, that’s a simple matter in comparison. Even if it comes with a universe of personal agony.

“No I want you to go stab him and tell him that my love for you is as real as his is for Jessica thank you very much,” she grunts into his chest, her voice catching on the last few words. 

She wants him to… _stab_ Wyatt? But that…?

His brain catches up.

He processes the last part of her sentence finally.

“You- you _love_ me!?” he stutters in a broken voice.

Lucy pulls away from him suddenly, her head shooting up with a concerned expression and her hands cupping his face softly.

“Of course I do, you idiot,” she smiles sadly through her tears and red-rimmed eyes after a long moment. “You think I would climb into bed every night with any old guy? Garcia, we’re _living_ together, in a room that we decorated together. I steal your clothes and you keep using my toiletries! I don’t choose Wyatt, I choose _you.”_

Flynn is pretty sure his heart has stopped beating.

She can’t possibly have-?

How-?

“But I’m not-“ he chokes. He’s not worthy, but the word won’t come out, stuck in his throat with all his other disbelief. He has a feeling that Lucy knows what he’s trying to say anyway.

“Yes you are,” Lucy nods seriously, tipping his head down so their foreheads touch. “Since the moment you walked into this bunker, I’ve been attached to you. And I don’t get attached to people who aren’t worth my time.”

“But- but-!”

She puts her finger across his lips, and then tips his head further. The kiss she presses against his forehead is cool and brief, but he still melts under it. 

“Garcia Flynn, I love you. Accept it as the fact it is.”

His legs are still dead, his arms still ache, and he’s sat in the most god-awful hunched over position imaginable. But he presses his face against the top of Lucy’s chest, her chin on his head in a reversal of five minutes ago. 

And breathes her in in total disbelief.

* * *

Eventually they have to get up off the floor. 

This morning’s training is clearly not happening and neither of them have eaten yet today, which is something they should do. And if he doesn’t move soon, all his joints will seize up for good. The bunker’s concrete floor is _cold_ goddammit, and he really should get on with making the rug out of a spare blanket he has planned.

He groans as he tries to stand, pins and needles racing up and down his legs like the world’s worst white noise static. He only gets halfway up before he gives up and lets himself stagger back half a step and collapse backwards onto Lucy’s bed. 

She giggles at him as he sprawls out in an ungainly manner. 

“God, I’m so old,” he groans as his bad shoulder pops loudly.

“You only have seven years on me,” Lucy snorts, cleaning her face up with a make up wipe. “Actually, it’s only six and a half when I think about it.”

“That’s assuming linear present passage of time,” he grunts as he forces himself to sit up and try to massage some feeling back into his thighs. “Every day more I’ve spent in the past than you has widened the gap.”

“Ah, but with 1912, 1950s South Carolina, and then Hollywoodland, I’ve actually probably spent more time out of the present timeline than you,” she smirks back. 

He considers this.

“Touché,” he concedes after a second. “But I’m pretty sure my body has taken far more of a battering over the years… I’ve got more scars than members of the Yoruba tribe, and I didn’t exactly ask for mine.”

“Mmmm, you look damn good though regardless,” Lucy smiles hotly, as she tugs off her tear-damp tee. Flynn hastily averts his eyes, which makes her laugh at him. “Honestly Garcia, we share a bed; I don’t mind if you sneak a peek.”

“That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me,” he mumbles as his cheeks heat up, eyes still rigidly on his feet. “And I um. Have a few hang ups about consent. I’m very ah, particular about always making sure I have it.”

“Well I’m telling you that you have mine,” she informs him in a more serious tone. There’s the familiar metal clang of one of the filing cabinet drawers sliding open despite its protests, and after a short rustle of fabric, Lucy’s feet appear in his line of sight, each foot bracketing his. 

Her finger brushes gently under his chin, and then she pushes slightly upwards, tipping his head up to meet her eyes.

“You’re allowed to look,” she repeats as her fingers slide into his hair.

He shivers involuntarily.

She’s holding one of his smaller, tighter tees in her hand, but she hasn’t put it on. 

Gods, she’s beautiful.

“Now I think you need to change your shirt too,” she grimaces, pulling the sodden patch of his tee away from his chest with a pinch of her thumb and finger. “Sorry for crying all over you.”

“I don’t mind,” he tells her honestly, shrugging self-consciously and his eyes wide. “I’ll always listen to what you need.”

“I know you will,” she smiles weakly again, leaning down to drop another kiss against his brow.

* * *

Flynn ends up showering before changing, seeing as he was dressed for training anyway and the time for that has definitely passed. 

The hot water pounds down on his tense shoulders and his skin reddens with the heat.

Lucy-

Lucy _loves_ him.

Lucy loves _him!_

He slathers his hair in lime scented shampoo and grins like an idiot.

* * *

It’s pretty obvious from the second that he steps into the main bay that the air is thick with tension. 

Jessica is sat by the TV, her face almost back to normal colours but her expression pinched. She has another classic novel in her hand, but Flynn’s pretty sure she’s not taking in a word of it. She looks irritated, like she bit into what was supposed to be a juicy orange segment only to find it bitterer than a particularly acid lemon.

Jiya and Rufus are both down by the Lifeboat, Jiya playing with the settings on a battered MP3 player with built in speakers. Rufus is nodding along to the beat of whatever synthy-techno music is playing quietly, but he’s studiously keeping his back to everyone else, attention completely focused on the screen of code he’s peering at.

Connor is elsewhere, and Lucy and Christopher are conversing quietly at one table, a stack of history books and half a dozen notepads spread out before them.

Wyatt has the pipes beneath the kitchen sink in bits, water is everywhere, and he looks miserable as sin. Every now and then he glances over at Lucy and his expression drops even further. 

Lucy doesn’t ever look back despite being sat facing him. 

Sighing inaudibly, Flynn shoves his hands in his pockets and shuffles round the partially mopped up spillage over to the women at the table. Pulling out the chair next to Lucy, he gingerly lowers himself into it, and grabs the nearest notepad. It’s covered in Lucy’s familiar tidy scrawl, lists of dates and names associated with the women’s suffragette movement. Two or three are circled and he assumes from previous experience that events surrounding these three have been slightly altered from what she remembers of their original timeline. 

“You don’t have to pretend to not be listening,” Lucy smiles tightly to him after a few minutes. Her hand smooths down over his shoulder so he knows she’s not upset or annoyed at him, but he shrugs anyway.

“Genuinely wasn’t paying attention,” he bites his lip truthfully. “I was um. Reading your notes.”

“Denise was just informing me that Stanford have officially started recruiting to replace me,” she mumbles. “I mean, they think I’m dead so no big surprise there, but it still…”

She trails off. 

“It still hurts,” Christopher finishes softly, her hands reaching across the table to clasp one of Lucy’s in hers. “You know Homeland will help you out however you need when this is all over. If you want to go back into college teaching, I will personally see to it that you get everything you need to do that.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” Lucy admits hoarsely. “I’m a completely different person to who I was before all this. I have skills and knowledge that I never needed before, and I don’t know if I can pretend that I never gained them. It’s not a… bad thing that I’ve changed, but- being a history professor, that was part of my mom’s legacy. It’s so tainted now I don’t know if I want to try to reclaim it as my own. The idea just doesn’t _feel_ right.”

“You can be who and whatever you want,” Christopher tells her gently. “And you’ve got time to consider all the possibilities, people here who care about you to help you with it all.”

“It’s all irrelevant until we get out of here anyway,” Lucy sighs tiredly, tilting sideways to lean on Flynn’s shoulder. “Who knows what else might change between now and then.”

Well, Flynn acknowledges silently, at least she’s thinking in terms of _when_ not _if._

He finds her other hand under the table and squeezes it gently in his.

* * *

Flynn finds himself at a bit of a loose end after Lucy has fed him some brunch.

Normally he would have been dragged into helping Wyatt with whatever project he was working on currently by now, but once the dour man has fixed the sink, he disappears into the basement so Flynn couldn’t follow him even if he wanted to. Besides, Flynn thinks it’s a good idea to follow everyone else’s lead and avoid him anyway. 

He quite likes everyone in the bunker now that he’s living and working alongside them instead of opposing them on the battlefield of time, but if it ever comes down to it, he will pick Lucy over every single one of them every time. She’s pissed off and upset with Wyatt, so by natural extension, Flynn will be too. 

So he tries to help with Lucy’s researching for a while, picking up a book on _The Great Inferno_ that Christopher must have brought with her this morning. But he can’t concentrate, the words skipping out of his mind as fast as he reads them. He feels giddy, prickly with unused energy, and unable to settle.

After the third time Lucy laughs at him for his restless shuffling, he gets up and saunters over to Rufus instead. 

“How much caffeine have you had?” is how the other man greets him, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Lucy’s not the only one who’s noticed his current antsy mood then.

“Just the one mug of coffee,” Flynn grins truthfully as he bounces on his toes.

“Right,” Rufus frowns with mild disbelief. “And what have you eaten?”

“Rufus honey buns,” Flynn croons. “I am not a hyperactive teenager! Now give me something to do please before I crawl out of my own skin.”

“No, you’re a hyperactive adult, which is quite possibly worse.”

“I’m fine!” Flynn insists.

“You’re jumping from one foot to another!”

“I’m staying active! It’s good fitness!”

“You don’t have bipolar disorder, do you?”

“No!” Flynn huffs. “I’m just feeling… excitable this morning.”

No wonder really, seeing that Lucy _loves him._ Rufus doesn’t need to know that though; it’s his secret to treasure for now.

“Will you calm down if I let you strip some wires and do some soldering for me?” Rufus sighs. “I’m working on a way to stabilise the gyro that doesn’t also neutralise its quantum gravitational distortion effect as we kind of need that to slide from one time plane to another. On the Mothership we simply encased the entire passenger pod in shielding. Sort of um, like a faraday cage I guess. But we can’t do that to the Lifeboat as the outer hull is solid sheet metal and it straight up won’t fit under the gyro train.”

“Can you put it inside the pod instead?” Flynn asks eagerly, dropping to sit cross legged on the floor next to the engineer. If this works, Flynn won’t be throwing up after every jump which sounds fantastic. “Or in or around the seats?”

“Can’t go around each seat as every passenger has to be in the same shielded bubble or you get multiple instances of localised time dilation which is… lets go with very bad and leave it at that. And we can’t line the inside of the cockpit without bringing every single electrical component and all the equipment inwards onto the inside of the lining. That would mean spending weeks and weeks disassembling the entire Lifeboat which we obviously can’t do.”

Flynn hums and picks up a pair of wire strippers out of Rufus’ toolbox. 

“What’s your idea then?” 

Rufus grins. 

“External electromagnetic shielding that will sit a nano width above the outer hull. I’m really hoping I can get it to glow blue because that would be so cool!”

* * *

Rufus gabbles a lot more science and physics that mostly goes over Flynn’s head as they work. There’s a lot of talk of something called Feynman diagrams and the amount of energy that various subatomic particles carry. 

Eventually Lucy drags him away to make him eat a late lunch, pulling him to the couch and passing him a plate with two pepperoni pizza subs on it and a small tub of sour garlic dip. She ends up eating most of one of his, but he’s still proud of himself for doing so much better on the food front than he was four weeks ago. 

“You’ve got pizza sauce on your face,” she snickers at him once she’s stacked both their plates on the coffee table and pressed herself up against his side. 

“Did I get it?” he asks as he tries to lick round the side of his mouth where she’s pointing.

“No, it’s further up.”

“Now?” 

“Higher!”

“Now!?”

“No! Here, just let me…”

She grabs his sleeve with his arm still in it and drags it across his top lip.

“There!” she grins cheekily.

“Now there’s tomato paste all over my sweater cuff!” he complains, rubbing at the stain with his other hand.

“It’s a dark red stain on a dark red sweater,” she snickers. “No one will notice.”

“But I’ve only been wearing it 4 hours and now it has to go in the wash,” he whines. “It’s my favourite colour!”

“I thought your favourite colour to wear was black,” she laughs. “Most of your wardrobe is black!”

“I was limited to the selection on offer in Walmart,” he grumbles. “Besides, black is practical in our line of work.”

 _“Our_ line of work huh?” she grins slyly up at him, pulling his arm over her shoulder.

“Romping through history kicking ass and taking names?” he grins back. “Fighting the good fight? Yeah, that’s our wheelhouse.”

“Ah, but the doing it together is the important part here,” Lucy nods. “As… partners.”

“You and I are going to make quite the team some day,” he quotes himself with a softer smile. 

Lucy sighs forlornly, still smiling but her mood lowering. Flynn curses himself for stumbling onto a mental landmine.

“I wish I’d believed you sooner,” she grumbles. “You were right, we were working for Rittenhouse.”

“I didn’t exactly give you much reason to trust me,” he mumbles ruefully. “What with the being a psychotically unhinged maniac and the storming around shooting at you and trying to blow things up.”

“You did less damage than you think you did really,” Lucy shakes her head. “I think you actually ended up killing less people than us in the end; people who wouldn’t have died anyway at least. And if you add in the number of people you saved who _should_ have died…”

“Please don’t try to justify my mentally unstable rampage,” Flynn whispers hollowly. “I did what I thought I thought I had to at the time, but not every end justifies the means. I had a lot of time to think in that cell, and a lot of it was spent on realising how much easier things could have been for all of us if I’d been less hostile and more open with my information.”

“I know you regret it,” Lucy agrees quietly, tilting her head up to press her lips briefly to the line of his jaw. “And I’m not going to pretend you’re a saint that’s not entitled to your guilt. I’m just easing the burden where I can. You deserve that much.”

Flynn is privately sure that he really doesn’t, but again. Not his place to dictate Lucy’s feelings or actions. She wants to help him, she’s allowed to. 

“I’ll try to let you, but just um,” Flynn starts awkwardly. “Just remember that I will always listen to you too. When you… I’m ah, intimately familiar with depression and trauma and… I will always listen when you need to talk. And I will always be there when you can’t find the words as well.”

“I love you too,” Lucy smiles adoringly at him.

Flynn drops his chin on top of her head and smiles softly into the distance.

* * *

_“He’s a peculiar one, isn’t he?” Connor muses out loud, picking at the condensation sodden label on his bottle of IPA._

_“Who? Flynn you mean?” Jiya frowns as she slides another sheet of stainless steel into the machining rig._

_“Yes exactly. Rather more Americanised than I was expecting a fellow European to be, and a lot more timid and shy than I anticipated from everyone’s descriptions of him. I was prepared to deal with a maelstrom of barely repressed rage and a sharp tongue, and yet he’s actually rather bashful, isn’t he?”_

_“Prison changes people,” Jiya shrugs, double checking the safety door is latched and then clicking the button to start the automated CAM process. “I suppose full time solitary does it even faster. And besides, it’s not like you or I ever met him face to face until now. Well, I saw him from across the room when he first stole the Mothership, but I don’t count that. Don’t judge a book by its cover and all that.”_

_“Well I suppose we ought to let this be yet another lesson warning of the dangers of preconceived perceptions,” Connor shrugs as he swigs his beer. “And something to take away when we get out of this damn bunker. Say Jiya, how would you and Rufus feel about combining private security tech and clean energy? Using the government funding we’d get to drive renewable energy research?”_

_Connor pauses and stares off into the distance._

_“And more importantly, how would you feel about avoiding everyone’s preconceived notions by you two being the face of it instead of me?_

* * *

Rufus keeps a wary eye on Flynn throughout the afternoon. 

He’s pretty sure the man is experiencing what his medical psychology textbooks call a temporary manic high. A brief burst of exuberance, energy, and a very cheerful mood. Nice while it lasts, but usually followed by a nosedive once the endorphins wear off and the serotonin fails to pick up the slack. 

There’d been a brief moment at about 2pm when Rufus thought the mood flip was about to happen – he and Lucy had been eating and cuddling on the couch when the conversation must have turned more serious – but Lucy had then kissed the underside of his chin and Flynn had seemed to mellow back out again, the tight lines around his eyes smoothing out. 

(If you’d have asked Rufus a month ago for a one-word descriptor for Flynn, _cuddly_ would not have been the one that sprung to mind. Terrifying yes. Psychotic also a strong contender. _Not_ cuddly. And yet it’s one of the top picks he’d consider now).

But it’s five o’clock now and they’re all changing into their workout clothes so that they can suffer through forty-five minutes of cardio and flex training before dinner, and Flynn is still grinning and bouncing around like a kid who’s had too many E-numbers. 

Lucy seems cheered by this more openly playful Flynn at least, which is a drastic improvement over the emotionally agonised women he watched run off in tears this morning. Rufus and Jiya had both given Wyatt the chewing out of a lifetime straight after that, which had gotten even worse when Jessica had come to find out what the commotion was about and joined in. 

To understate, Wyatt is thoroughly in the doghouse.

And speak of the devil…

Rufus tips his head back and mumbles a fervent prayer for patience to the ghost of Einstein past. Wyatt doesn’t take the hint though and remains loitering in his doorway until Rufus finally deigns to look across to him.

“Hey um,” Wyatt nervously mumbles. “I’m gonna stay away from training. I’ll um. Do my own reps out of everyone else’s sight.”

“Peachy,” Rufus grumbles turning his back on his friend and grabbing his hoody and empty sports water bottle. 

“I’m not- I’m not going to make Lucy or- or Flynn interact with me by trying to tell them myself before they’re ready. But- could you let them know when they’re ready to hear an apology, I um. They can come talk to me. I’ll stay clear of them until they want it though. Or- or if they want me to do something other than giving them their space, I uh. I’ll listen to whatever it is they need.”

“Do it yourself man,” Rufus huffs, shouldering his way past the man and walking away without looking back. “I’m not a damn messenger owl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got so much nonsense to spew, bear with me (BEAR. WITH ME!)
> 
> \- I said back at the start of writing this that I was going to give Wyatt half a brain and some common sense. I wanted him to live up to the potential we saw a lot of in series 1. I recognise though, that giving him an entirely clean slate would be untrue to his character and his arc. I didn't want to Mary Sue him. So you see what we get here. This is his low point, but unlike in canon, he _knows_ he fucked up _and_ he and everyone else is acknowledging that fact. Now he will have a chance to repent and fix his shit, to build on that basis I gave him in the first twenty-odd chapters. 
> 
> \- Hello I'm Edward and I'm a raging asexual. Sex as a basis for a relationship confuses the fuck out of me (pun intended). I'm not even going to try and fake it till I make it; instead we're going all out on the emotional intimacy. I believe that both Lucy and Flynn are allos (sexual people) and so that will be part of their evolution as a pairing, but its like, the least important part of love to me. You'll see that reflected in my style of character development. 
> 
> \- And finally! For those of you who are reading this as it's posted chapter by chapter: work is absolutely kicking my arse this week. I worked three fifteen-hour days one after another and have then gone straight into working full days over the weekend (which I usually have off). Then come Monday, i'll still be pulling full time hours at a minimum. I'm still hovering around Tumblr all day (begging for distractions, ye gods), but writing has slowed to a crawl while I sob into corvid-induced economic disorder (thanks government, you're assholes).


	25. Chapter 25

Three days after they arrive back from 1930s San Antonia, Flynn wakes with a pleasant stretch and realises the last of the stitches in his abdomen has dissolved out. 

Tipping his head down to peer blearily under the comforter and fumbling along his side with one hand, he yawns silently and drags his fingers over the area, careful not to disturb Lucy.

There’s a sharp pink line left behind, another mark on his skin to serve as a reminder of a mistake made but survived. It cuts vertically across another, much older scar, white with age and more jagged as the knife that had made it had neither gone in nor come out cleanly. He’d only been 17 when he’d gotten that one. 

The tip of the new line almost touches one of the few scars he has that he’s actually bothered by. Most of the others are just… there. He doesn’t love them, doesn’t hate them. They’re just part of his skin. Even the ones he caused himself and regrets, they’re nothing but an experience to learn from to him.

But there’s a few he’d rather not think about the origins of. 

That deep, distinctive whip mark is one of them.

By the time his squad had found him and rescued him, he’d been delirious with blood loss and infection had set in deep. He’d survived the experience by the skin of his teeth and earned himself six months of medical recovery in Belgium as a result. 

If he could burn away the memories of bearing those 25 lashes, he absolutely would.

(they’d made him go to therapy too then, and he’d hated every second of it. Mostly because he wasn’t an active participant in it, was actively trying to get out as fast as possible instead of taking it seriously…)

Thankfully, there’s only two of those marks which curl around onto his front, which means he can’t see most of them even in a mirror. Oddly enough, people touching them doesn’t bother him but then he always has been a touchy-feely kind of guy, eagerly welcoming every friendly tactile gesture that comes his way. That tendency has gotten him in serious trouble more than a few times but seeing as it also led him first to Matej and then later Lorena… yeah, even the brutal homophobic hate crime it once induced hasn’t stopped it being worth it.

Especially when he considers being an extremely tactile guy has now led him to Lucy too. 

They’re both lying diagonally across the bed, Lucy on her back while he uses her shoulder as a pillow. Her arm is around his back, her fingers threaded gently into the hair at the nape of his neck. He needs a hair cut really, but he’ been putting it off because Lucy like playing with his hair almost as much as he likes his hair being played with. 

He has one leg draped over hers, the front of his hip pressing against the side of hers. They’re both wearing long flannel sleep pants, but unlike him, Lucy is wearing one of his soft cotton tees too. The bed covers have been pulled up tightly over them all night, tucked in around their necks. He pulls his free arm away from the new scar on his abdomen and hooks the edge of the comforter in his hand, pinning it down against the mattress and sealing the cold air of the bunker away once again.

They have their own pillows, but they always seem to wake up using just the one. Whether that’s because they both have their heads on it, or one of them is lying atop the other, the end result is the same.

“I know your awake,” Lucy whispers cheerfully into the to of his hair, her lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “You’ve gone all wiggly and you sleep like a dead log when you’re properly out cold. As soon as you start shuffling I know you’re stirring.”

“Hnnng,” he grumbles happily.

Her fingers dance across the skin of his back for a second, tracing out one long scar, making him shiver pleasantly. 

She chuckles at him softly, her legs straightening beneath his as she also stretches with a yawn.

He turns his head and breathes his face into her neck, breathing in the warm, faintly strawberry scent with a smile. 

“We need to get up.”

“No,” he grunts with a hidden grin. He then deliberately tightens the arm and leg he has slung over her, pressing himself more into her warmth. Stars he’s missed this, the early morning cuddles and the peace it brings him.

“Rufus will be banging on the door.”

“Don’t care,” he mumbles thickly. 

“He will mercilessly take the piss out of you for being a clingy bastard.”

“Shhhhh, sleeping time.”

Lucy laughs at him, a loud warm peal which makes him grin harder into her neck. 

“No, come on Garcia. We both need to eat before training, and you need to shave.”

“Thought you liked the stubble,” he mumbles, turning his face again so he can nuzzle upwards along her jaw.

_“I_ have no problem with it,” she laughs, resuming running her fingers over his back. “But you will whine about your face being itchy all day if you leave it be.”

“That’s ‘cause it is itchy,” he grumbles.

“So get up and go shave!”

“But I don’t wonna!” he whines with a shit-eating grin, wriggling up the bed slightly so he can rub his stubble on Lucy’s cheek.

“Adult male, my ass,” she snickers as she bats at him playfully. “You’re just 200 pounds of overgrown toddler.”

Flynn laughs too and flops back on top of her. They can’t get out of bed if he has her pinned down with his deadweight.

* * *

With a white tank top haphazardly pulled on and a towel slung round his neck, Flynn stumbles sleepily into the bathroom. 

At some point over the last few days, someone has finally managed to replace the old bulbs with modern white LEDs, so now the room looks not only clean and semi-modern, but also well illuminated. 

Unfortunately, Wyatt is stood at the sink half covered in shaving foam utilising said new lighting.

“Logan,” he grunts with a bitter twist of his lips as he stomps over and half slams his and Lucy’s wash bag down onto the new shelf under the mirror.

Wyatt winces and ducks his head. Clearly he’s already realised that he should be ashamed of himself and regrets his actions and words, but Flynn had silently promised to stay angry for a long as Lucy was. That’s what partners do right?

“Is there any hot water left?” he bites out when Wyatt merely huddles over the sink and starts cleaning up his neckline faster than is probably safe. 

“I’m sorry!” Wyatt stutters, his eyes slightly wide and his razor suddenly forgotten in the basin. “I’m a stupid jealous asshole and I have no reason to be! I should have kept my mouth shut and my untrue bullshit to myself.”

“It’s not me you need to apologise to,” Flynn sighs, deciding to throw the man a bone; he supposes he owes the other man that much at least, after the care and consideration he was shown himself when he arrived at the bunker last month. “And don’t try to grovel or explain yourself. Just say you’re sorry and then ask what reparations she wants from you. And then bloody well do them without complaint.”

“Okay,” Wyatt nods eagerly, seeming to not notice the unamerican turn to his words. Flynn supposes he must have picked up the phrase from Connor – he always has absorbed other people’s speech patterns with alarming rapidity. 

“Now finish shaving and leave me in peace,” Flynn grunts as he shucks off his tee and heads for the showers. “And don’t try to accost Lucy until after lunch.”

He doesn’t look back to check whether Wyatt is taking his last words seriously as well, tossing the rest of his pyjamas on the central bench and shoving his head quickly under the hot spray instead.

When he shakes his hair out thirty seconds later and fumbles for his comb, the other man has already scarpered.

* * *

Morning training is a tad awkward seeing as he’s running it alone for the first time. Usually he has Wyatt to bounce off or use for demonstrations, or they can pull the other bunker dwellers aside for some one-on-one pointers while the other over sees the rest. 

It’s not that he _can’t_ do it alone, it’s that he hasn’t until now with this group of people.

Still, he manages okay. Especially once Agent Christopher rolls her eyes and joins in, slapping Connor around the mats with a disturbing amount of glee.

“Adult mutant ninja badass,” Rufus sings as they take their turns in the showers afterwards. Since the aftermath of the burning of Chicago, the engineer has shown increasingly less hesitancy to just jump in the shower with the other men, his embarrassment lessening as he’s apparently realised that the rest of them really _don’t_ give a damn. 

“Cowabunga,” Flynn deadpans as he slathers his hair up and lets the heat wash away the sweat. 

“Hence forth from this day henceforward!” Rufus laughs as he throws a fist full of soap bubbles at Flynn. “I shall hence forth be known only forwardly as Leonardo da Rufus and shall hence forth wear a blue eye mask…. Hence.”

“This is exactly why I have never done the legal part of your adoption,” Connor groans as he self-consciously refuses to finish getting undressed.

* * *

_“He seems happier today,” Lucy muses. “More carefree, less weighed down by guilt and self-loathing.”_

_“Such is the cycle of depression,” Denise sighs. “Enjoy it with him while it lasts; he’ll tailspin again soon.”_

_“Your optimism is so encouraging of morale,” Connor deadpans as he fumbles with a cork in a wine bottle. “Truly, your leadership is an inspiration.”_

_“Oh piss off Mason,” Denise snorts. “I’m just the handler and your government shield you all know it. Lucy’s the real leader down here.”_

* * *

Munching on a bowl of cereal and peering at Lucy’s latest batch of notes over her shoulder, Flynn jumps and nearly spills the whole lot all over his bedding when the Mothership alarm goes off. 

_“Fuck!”_ Lucy swears emphatically as she drops her pencil in disgust. “I was just getting into the swing of things for the day! I had so many plans and ideas mapped out!”

Setting his food on the desk next to her with an annoyed groan, he laces his boots up tightly quickly, and then grabs his double shoulder holsters from by the hooks by their door. Lucy is already up and jogging down the hall, so he grabs her new holster too, and swiftly goes after her.

Rufus, Wyatt, and Jess are all already in the main bay when he comes sliding in, the former two eyeing each other nervously. A second quick glance round reveals that Mason and Jiya are also already at the computer bank, watching the homing signal indicator circle around a blue world map in an increasingly small circumference. 

“March 4th 1919, New York,” Jiya calls out as he hands Lucy the brown leather strap and then helps her settle it around her waist. Rufus is tugging on his self-consciously too, having opted for the over shoulder style like Flynn prefers. None of them have weapons to slide into them yet, but no doubt Christopher will provide them shortly.

“March 4th?” Lucy repeats. “That was Woodrow Wilson’s last day in the Unites States before going to Paris to negotiate the treaty of Versailles.”

“You think they might try and kill Woodrow Wilson to stop this treaty?” Christopher asks with a deep frown. 

“That treaty basically reorganised the world. Borders redrawn, colonies gained freedom.”

“Sweet,” Rufus grimaces. “Rittenhouse wants to make the bad version of Germany great again.”

“Actually it was the harshness of the treaty that led to the Nazi party gaining power,” Flynn chips in, one hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “If things in Germany are less horrific, if there’s less sanctions, then World war two might not happen.”

“That’s no better,” Lucy grimaces. “The end of that war jump started loads of social and civil rights movements and lead to a suppression of fascism in the western world that we’re only starting to see openly return now. Fucking republicans.”

“Either way, Wilson being assassinated is undoubtedly a bad thing,” Christopher cuts in before they can jaunt off into one of their lively historical debates. “Where will he be on the 4th?”

“He was staying at the York Hotel,” Lucy states clearly. “Presidential suite, top floor.” 

“That’s a place to start,” Wyatt says with cool professionalism, avoiding looking at the rest of them. 

“Alright,” Flynn sighs. “What time did the mothership land?”

“Six am,” Jiya winces sympathetically. 

“So can we jump to the night before?” Wyatt asks. “Get some cash and check into the hotel?” 

“Depends on how much trouble Rufus will have.” Christopher grimaces. “Wasn’t it Woodrow Wilson who ratified segregation into law?”

“He was a democrat and really pushed some liberal amendments,” Lucy winces. “But it was also the 1910s and 20s. From the standpoint of that era, he was _extremely_ progressive for a white male politician, but looking back now… yeah, there’s some not great things in there too.”

“Arguably he’s still better than our current president?” Rufus tries to joke weakly.

“That’s not an argument, that’s a blunt fact,” Flynn snorts. “Though the current bar is so, so low.”

“Can you check into the York Hotel with Rufus safely?” Christopher asks bluntly.

Lucy hesitates.

“Yes,” she nods eventually. “We’ll have to pretend to be from old money, and Rufus will have to be either Wyatt or Flynn’s right-hand man… but it’s doable.”

“You alright with coming Flynn?” Wyatt bites his lip. “You keep getting dragged into field work against your will man; if you wonna hang back, we got you covered. We always managed fine with just the three of us before. Like the Beatles, ya know?”

“You do know there were four Beatles?” Flynn raises an eyebrow.

“Four seats, four of you are going,” Christopher commands. “Flynn’s on board.”

“Connor could come instead?” Rufus offers tentatively. “He did okay in San Antonio.”

“How do I put this?” Connor drawls. “How about hell bloody no.”

“I’ll be fine,” Flynn sighs tiredly. He’s been resigned to being an active field agent since after returning JFK to his high school. “Connor coming would only double the ignorant racism problem, and even I can’t spin having two black men serving directly under me. Especially not when one is blatantly English.”

“If you’re really desperate not to go, I could sub in?” Jiya shakily offers. “I’m getting pretty handy with the guns and I throw a mean punch now? We could pose as two couples?”

“No,” Lucy shakes her head immediately. “You’re a woman _and_ you look mixed ethnicities. We’re not exposing you to that on your first time out. If something post 1960s comes up, then we’ll talk.”

“Lucy, Rufus, Logan, Flynn,” Christopher bites out. “That’s the roster. Gear up and jump to March 3rd.”

* * *

_“Are you sure about this Wyatt?” Lucy bites her lip as she stares down at the request form._

_“Denise is almost ready for me to sign. And the first thing I’m doing is getting Flynn his ring back like I promised you I would. This is how we do that.”_

* * *

The atmosphere inside the Lifeboat is noticeably tense, with Lucy pushing Flynn to sit in Wyatt’s usual seat before Wyatt has a say in the matter. It leaves the two of them facing each other with their knees brushing, and Wyatt awkwardly tucking his feet under his own seat off to their side. 

Rufus huffs loudly but doesn’t say anything as he flicks switches and loads up the displays he needs. Flynn glances sideways at the back of the pilot, wishing now that he hadn’t told Wyatt to wait until after lunch before trying to start making amends. 

Maybe if they’d already started mending their fences, he wouldn’t be thinking about how the tension could be cut even without a knife. 

“Flynn and I will pose as a married couple,” Lucy says neutrally as the time machine rumbles to life around them. Her expression is carefully blank, but her spine is rigid and her eyes are fixed on Flynn’s cheekbone, barely blinking. “Wyatt, you’re my brother and you and Flynn run an armaments and private security company based over in Europe. Rufus is your chief of staff, and we’re in New York to see to our American stocks and speak to our brokers.”

“Names?” Flynn asks gruffly as he braces himself for the imminent nausea; Rufus and Jiya hadn’t finished with their shielding modifications before the alarms went off, so pebble in an empty cask it is for him again.

“Mr and Mrs Flynn and Lucy Tompkins,” she reels off tonelessly. “Rufus Connors, and Wyatt Jameson. Use the fake surnames to keep us under the radar, but if one of us slips a first name out accidently it won’t be so noticeable. We’ve got to keep this up for an overnight trip, so best play safe with the aliases.”

Flynn wonders silently how he could ever have thought of this timeline’s Lucy as naïve and inferior. He was a fucking idiot to ever let thought so much as cross his mind.

“Jumping to 11am on March 3rd in three,” Rufus calls out as he flicks two last switches and then brings both hands to his primary screen. “Two. One!”

* * *

Nope. 

_Nope!_

Flynn practically throws himself out of the lifeboat as soon as the rumbling has stopped. He’s seen Rufus release the door hatch enough times now to know how to do it, and he barely even glances around to check the safety of their surroundings before he almost falls out onto the ground and stumbles away to throw up. 

Wyatt also looks rather green as he climbs down behind him and starts making a more thorough visual sweep of the area, but a few shuddering deep breathes seem to settle him. 

Flynn uncharitably calls him a bastard in his head as he continues gagging for almost a full minute after the last of his cocoa pops have come back up. 

Lucy is quick to make her way over to him once Rufus has helped her down, and one hand threads into his hair as the other settles over his own which are clenched over his stomach. She makes soft shushing noises as he heaves twice more, nothing but bitter stringy bile coming up, and her hand shifts to rub up and down his back. 

“Thanks,” he gasps eventually, his throat burnt raw. Rufus hands him a plastic bottle of water, and half of the contents end up on the floor as he rinses his mouth and face. 

“Jeez dude,” Wyatt grimaces sympathetically. “That was much worse than Connecticut 1931.”

“The Lifeboat and I are in increasing disagreement,” Flynn coughs roughly, forcing himself to actually swallow a couple of mouthfuls of water.

“The fourth seat really hasn’t helped,” Lucy mutters as he cautiously straightens up. She reaches up and gently smooths his jumper down, unscrunching the hem around his waist and patting it down flat over his hips with steady hands. 

“We’re gonna need our jackets,” Flynn grumbles as he resettles his holsters across his shoulders. “Can’t be more than 8 degrees out here.”

“It’s not even freezing?” Wyatt blinks earnestly, dragging the toe of one boot through the damp ground. “There’s even daffodils starting to grow under the base of the tree there and- oh, you mean Celsius. I’m an idiot.”

“We know you are,” Rufus sighs as he throws the scrunched up plastic bottle back into the Lifeboat. “Now I parked up here because there’s an estate house half a mile away that belongs to the owner of a textile industry. According to Wikipedia, the family still have the original water wheel and weaving plant on their estate and use it to manufacture the clothes in their high fashion side of the business. And I don’t know about you, but I have no computations about stealing from a bunch of bastards that are still going to be loudly protesting the abolishment of unregulated workhouses well into the fifties and whose children and grand-children will eventually all get arrested for racial hate crimes.”

* * *

Rufus’ clothing acquisition plan was a good one, and they help themselves to two or three outfits each once they’ve broken into the mill’s adjacent warehouse. There’s one young man on duty in the building, scurrying back and forth in a tailor’s vest and measuring some bolts of silk, but Flynn and Wyatt quickly and quietly tackle him from behind and leave him peacefully unconscious amongst some bales of wool.

Having changed into upper class period appropriate attire and donned a bowler hat each, Wyatt goes to help Rufus pack their other chosen outfits into some stolen suitcases they found by the hat stands, and Flynn bumbles over to help Lucy with her dress and stockings. 

“Thank you,” Lucy mumbles as he bends down and buckles her practical shoes up with delicate fingers. “For you know, taking my side on this whole Wyatt mess but still keeping everyone’s heads level. I’m still so angry with him, but I know the mission has to come first. I wish I could keep my composure the way you are.”

“I’ll always take your side, especially in public,” Flynn rumbles back truthfully. “I’ll um. Call you out in private when we both need it, but I’m here to support you, not… leave you fighting on two fronts. So yes, I’ll try to keep a civil tongue in my head while we’re working, but I’ll publicly knee him in the balls once we’re home if you like?”

“I love you,” Lucy breathes into his hair as she lifts his hat off and presses her lips to his brow.

“I love you too,” he grins, sliding his hands along her arms and up to her shoulders as he stands.

* * *

_“What’s this?” Wyatt frowns as Agent Christopher shoves a manila file under his nose. She’s cornered him in his bunkroom, shutting the door behind them and making him sit at the rickety desk in the corner that he will eventually get around to fixing and levelling off._

_“The Transfer initiation papers,” she tells him crisply. “You sign this and you’re one step further towards getting out of the military and into Homeland’s special ops instead.”_

_“And this is definitely going to help everyone else in the bunker too, like I asked?”_

_“Once you’re a Homeland agent, you can joint sign Flynn’s official pardon, yes.”_

* * *

Rufus is not liking being stuck in the middle. 

Flynn, as Rufus fully expected him to, is 100% on Lucy’s side of this whole interpersonal disaster that’s going on. To be honest, Rufus is too as he thinks Wyatt was a right bastard when he said what he did. Not just to Lucy and Flynn, but to Jessica too. Implications regarding commitment and all that. 

But Flynn in particular seems to be trying to be professionally civil in his words and actions towards Wyatt despite his permanent scowl and his protective hovering over Lucy. Which is making Rufus feel like he really ought to be doing the same.

And Wyatt is obviously trying to act like everything’s fine for the sake of the mission, but that means he keeps trying to engage Rufus in banter that he doesn’t want to be engaged in right now. And then his ignoring Wyatt is making Lucy glare at him. Because, mission stability and teamwork and all that he guesses.

But if he quips a few words _back_ to Wyatt like he normally would have before all this mess, then _Flynn_ glares at him like he’s committed a heinous betrayal. 

And then on the third side, Wyatt is kicked-puppy eyeing him regardless of what he tries.

Well and truly, stuck in the fucking middle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My research into Woodrow Wilson largely consisted of halfheartedly scanning his Wikipedia page while cursing the world. As a pale and pasty white Englishmen, I have zero right to be commenting on the state of racial politics in america right now (historical context for later readers: I'm posting this in the middle(?) of the June 2020 protests and riots #BLM). As such, I've tried to keep the commentary to canon-typical levels so that voices more important that mine can speak up. 
> 
> On a more cheery note, hi how is everyone doing? I don't know why so many guys complain that stubble and beards are itchy? Mine only irritates my skin when I properly wet shave and I start getting in grown hairs. Maybe Flynn is just a lovable whiny bitch <3


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Things of note**
> 
> \- Went real heavy with the Croatian towards the end of this chapter. It _is_ all rehashed in English (minus a load of sappy love struck rambling) afterwards, but if you're struggling to get [Google Translate](https://www.google.com/search?q=translate&rlz=1C1GGRV_enGB751GB752&oq=translate&aqs=chrome..69i57j35i39j0l5.2392j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8) going, drop me a comment (or a Tumblr ask) and I'll bash together a translated transcript.
> 
> \- Proof reading is for sensible people. I am not one of those. It's late, I have to drive 150 miles tomorrow (120? I don't remember), and I thought you would like this chapter now rather than waiting a few days for me to find time to edit it.
> 
> \- I'm love you all. Volim te.

Flynn take off his blue-light filtering sunglasses, adjusts his hat, and offers his right arm to Lucy. Then together they walk through the open front doors of the York Hotel with Wyatt and Rufus hot on their heels. 

Straightening his shoulders and holding his head as arrogantly as he can manage, he strides imperiously to the front desk in the Lobby and peers down at the man working behind it. 

“We’d like three of your best rooms for the night,” he demands immediately as Lucy delicately stops beside him, her eyes also cool and her chin raised. 

“Three rooms sir?” The check in worker asks with a frown, peering round him and Lucy at Rufus suspiciously.

“Yes obviously,” Flynn scoffs. “Unless you intend to imply that my brother-in-law should for some reason be made to share with our chief of technical operations?”

“We do have a set of rooms set aside for servants and household staff sir,” the man insists with raised eyebrows.

“And now he’s implying that the lead engineer and technical designer of the Heckler and Kock defence manufacturing company is a mere servant,” Lucy sighs loudly. “Brother dearest,” she half turns to address Wyatt, “I know you insisted that this was an outstanding establishment, but it appears that its previous standards may not have been maintained.”

“I’m sure there are other more honourable hotels that would appreciate our patronage and money more, yes.” Wyatt scowls quite convincingly. 

“No! Wait!” the desk man stutters. “I intended no offence! If you wait but a moment, I will fetch a manager so you can be served as your status deserves!”

“See that you do that quickly,” Flynn bites out, rolling his neck with an audible crack.

* * *

10 minutes later, a bell boy takes all their luggage and they are escorted by a concierge to the floor only one level below the penthouses and presidential suite. 

Lucy and Flynn take the largest available room, Flynn having waved around a large wad of (stolen) cash until he got what he wanted. Wyatt takes a room across the hall, and Rufus slides into the suite attached and connected to Flynn and Lucy’s room with a smirk that clearly makes the hotel staff nervous. 

“Heckler and Kock?” Flynn questions with a raised eyebrow as soon the door has closed behind them and they’re alone. 

“I do pay attention to you and Wyatt when you start lecturing us all on gun manufacturers you know,” Lucy sasses right back. “They’re a German company that won’t be established until the end of 1949, and are known for their innovation, particularly in the development and use of polymers and polygonal rifling.”

“Oh yes, talk sexy to me baby,” Flynn waggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Should have known that gun talk would turn you on,” she rolls her eyes at him fondly. “Damn military boys and your toys.”

“Oh no,” Flynn corrects with an easy grin. “It’s the display of your intelligence and amazing memory recall that’s getting me hot and bothered, not the subject matter.”

Lucy flushes red, a mixture of both pride and embarrassment. 

Flynn feels his own cheeks start to heat up too, as the weight of his words suddenly sink in. The implications of what he didn’t just imply, but outright _said…_ The feelings between the two of them are real, he knows that. But their relationship is still a cautious but comfortable thing, still new and only openly acknowledged in the last few days. 

What… physical intimacy they’ve shared has always been intense, but it’s only just started to expand sideways from platonic comfort into romantic closeness. And any suggestion that it might evolve further- well, Flynn hasn’t really even thought about it, let alone actively considered it or spoken of the possibility. 

They haven’t even _kissed_ yet, beyond Lucy constantly pressing her lips to various parts of his cheeks, brow, and neck. 

And now Lucy is looking at him like-

And he’s looking back like-

And there’s that giant queen-sized bed only steps away and-

“Can you seriously not hear me knocking!” Rufus practically yells as he barges his way into the room through the connecting door. “I swear I’ve been banging away on the wood for like a full minute now! It’s like-! Oh I’m interrupting a serious moment here aren’t I?”

Flynn lets his head turn dramatically without moving his shoulders, shooting his closest bunker friend his best sarcastic _Oh you noticed that did you_ look.

“Awwwkwaaard!” Rufus bites his lip cheekily, voice high pitched. He doesn’t leave though, apparently unrepentant in his interruption.

“Nothing was happening!” Lucy splutters in a similarly high-pitched tone, her hands fluttering nervously around her belt clasp. 

“Uh-huh,” Rufus snorts, still grinning. “Just making lovey dovey eyes at each other and imagining tearing all your clothes off.”

“That is not-!” Lucy protests even louder as Flynn shifts from embarrassment to all out mortification and ducks his own head self-consciously.

“Yes it was,” Rufus teases over the top of her. “You wanna climb that man like the tree he is Lucy, don’t deny it.”

“Rufus!” Flynn protests. “Shut up!”

“Nope!” Rufus laughs. “This is payback for every time you’ve flirted with me in front of Jiya, you little bisexual bitch boy!”

“Don’t call my man a bitch boy!” Lucy snaps hotly. “And there’s nothing little about him! He is proportional in every sense!” 

“What the fuck did I just walk into?” Wyatt throws his hands up, his eyes wide. Flynn pinches his brow and can’t decide whether to break into hysterical laughter or sobbing tears. 

Maybe both. Both sounds good.

“No, we are not having this discussion,” Lucy huffs, throwing her clothes and hat onto the dining table in the corner of the room.

“Should I come back later?” Wyatt winces as he starts to back away through the main door into the hallway.

“No!” Lucy blurts. “You are staying in here and we are discussing work. Because we are her for work.”

“Are you sure, because I can-”

“Do not make this any more awkward than it already is Wyatt,” Lucy grits out, striding back into the middle of the room and crossing her arms sternly. “You know what, actually yes. Yes we are going to talk about it. Shut the damn door behind you and we’re all going to get this mess sorted out finally, right here, right now.”

“Um…” Wyatt mumbles nervously, doing as he’s told but also taking his hat off and fiddling with the brim. Flynn, suddenly filled with anxious energy, also takes his outwear off and resolutely chants silently at himself until he’s able to refrain from pacing. 

“Yes. _Um_ indeed,” Lucy bites out. “Why did you say what you did Wyatt?”

Wyatt stands there like a deer caught in the headlights. Mouth hanging slightly open and eyes filled with panic.

“Because I’m an asshole and an idiot,” he mumbles eventually. “And- and even though I knew you were never mine for me to lose, I still felt like… Like I’d tried to give you my heart and you walked away from it.”

“You felt like _I_ walked away from _you!?”_ Lucy gasps in dumbfounded shock. “You didn’t even tell us what was happening before you broke out of the bunker to go be with Jessica! You left _me!”_

“I know that!” Wyatt retorts hotly. “I know the facts, and I know the truth, but feelings aren’t rational. And I’m really _trying_ to give you the space the respect you deserve. And I know that the only person responsible for my feelings is me, but I still can’t help that I _have_ those feelings! I was falling in love with you and I can’t just switch that off!”

“I’m the one who got my heart broken Wyatt!” Lucy yells, and Flynn has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from rushing over to her to shield her with his body. “You got everything you wanted, and it was Flynn who stepped in to pick up the shattered pieces of me you left behind! So yeah, I could live with knowing that you chose your wife of like, a decade over our one single night. It hurt, but I understood and I respected that you had to make an awful choice! I respected that you hated making it but did the right thing and made it anyway! It wasn’t your choice that angered me, it was how you reacted when I then made mine. That’s what caused this riff Wyatt. Your words and actions.”

“Me opening my stupid mouth and acting like I was the only one allowed to move on, yeah,” Wyatt sighs tiredly. “You know I’m sorry for that, and I’ll say it until we’re all blue in the face and sick of hearing the words.”

“The words alone aren’t good enough,” Lucy grimaces, moisture beading at the corners of her eyes. “You chose Jess. You have to accept that I’ve chosen too. No more questioning me on my own choices. What Flynn and I do is officially none of your damn business. You are going to have to earn my respect back.”

“I can, I can do that,” Wyatt promises gruffly. “It was my fuck up, so I’m the one who’ll do the repair work.”

“And for the love of god,” Lucy also sighs tiredly. “Either soundproof your room, or learn to bite a pillow. We all know way too much about Jess’ vocal range now.”

“Oh Einstein yes please, please do that,” Rufus begs with a nervous chuckle. “If Jiya and I can keep it down, you two can manage it too.”

“And!” Lucy barrels onwards, turning on Rufus with a frosty glare. “While I’m on a roll, we’re going to talk about your problem with Jiya’s visions too!”

“I’m trying!” Rufus squeaks. “It’s just so weird!”

“Try harder! You’re supposed to be her support in everything! For goodness sake Rufus, you built a damn time machine, but time visions are somehow one step too far into the realm of science fiction!?”

“Technically you built two time machines,” Flynn adds wryly. 

“Visions come under the realm of science fantasy, not science fiction?” Rufus offers weakly.

“Vulcan’s are touch telepaths and have Pon Farr!” Flynn snorts. “And you favour Star Wars over Star Trek anyway!”

“Yes, whatever he said!” Lucy insists, pointing at Rufus. “You’re upsetting Jiya with this refusal to discuss something that’s bothering her and not supporting her with it!”

“Yeah, I know you’re right,” Rufus mumbles after a long pause. “It’s just… so fantastical, I have a hard time taking it seriously.”

“You don’t have to take it seriously,” Wyatt offers tentatively, making both Flynn and Lucy scowl at him. “You just have to take _her_ seriously, and her belief in it seriously.”

“Okay I was about to yell at you again, but you saved yourself there,” Lucy snorts.

“My turn for a Preston special slow roasting now?” Flynn asks cautiously. 

“Nope!” Lucy grins brightly. “You yell at yourself enough for all of us already. So all you’re getting is a reminder to ask when you need help. No suffering in silence over some bullshit belief that you don’t deserve help and comfort.”

Flynn just nervously licks his lips and then nods once slowly rather than trying to put his feelings and agreement into words. 

“We all um, going to agree to stop being assholes and move on then?” Wyatt mumbles, still looking shamefaced. “One for all, and all against Rittenhouse?”

“Here here,” Rufus nods manically

“One for all, and all against Rittenhouse,” Lucy agrees. “Now come on, we actually do need to discuss this mission and how we’re going to tackle it.”

* * *

They take advantage of the hotel’s in-house restaurant rather than going romping around 1919 New York city. Given that it’s the early 20th century, the menu isn’t exactly diverse, but they all manage to order to their tastes anyway.

Wyatt, predictably, gets himself a large plate of steak and potatoes and liberally slathers it in the accompanying sauce. Flynn is much more conservative in his choice and ops for the chef’s special fish dish. They don’t get seafood in the bunker often and his Croatian hometown of Split is famous for its coastal palette; it’s almost like a taste of home when his plate arrives.

Rufus actually manages to get what he ordered too, and they only have to have one pointed and threatening conversation with the sous chef before the rest of the staff stop glaring suspiciously at their table. 

Afterwards they retreat to the hotel bar, find the least smoky corner they can, and sit around with crystal cut glasses of whiskey. They’re careful not to go further than getting slightly tipsy as they have to get up early and make sure no sleeper agents get into the presidential suite. But they huddle up close, swap embarrassing childhood stories, and grin and laugh the evening away.

They don’t see the president or any of his entourage, but a brief burst of activity out on the hotel’s atrium just after 9pm lets the four of them know that he’s retiring to his room for the evening. They give it another hour or so before they call it a night themselves and laugh their way up to their respective rooms.

* * *

Flynn doesn’t know why his pulse starts racing once he’s stripped himself down to his underwear and hung his suit up.

Lucy is already clambering into the bed, clad only in the thin, silky shift that was hung on the back of the bathroom door. She’s wiped away her makeup with the contents of the modern washbag that they’d stored in the Lifeboat and then snuck into the hotel with them, and she’s let her hair down and brushed it out so that it falls in soft, shiny waves.

Flynn has seen all this many times now. This is Lucy’s usual evening routine. The routine that happens in the room they share in the bunker every night. The one that ends with them laid side by side in bed holding hands and whispering good night. 

And yet this evening it’s like something has changed. Something more than just the venue and the fact that the bed is a Queen and therefore a full extra foot wider than they’re used to (possibly more, seeing as only twin and normal doubles were standardised until the 1950s). Something that Flynn knows is all just in his own head but still makes him hesitate as he stands uncomfortably to one side.

“What’s up honey?” Lucy asks him once he’s sure he’s been standing for more than a whole minute.

 _Nothing_ is on the tip of his tongue, but again, the only lying he does is professional career lying. He doesn’t want to admit to the truth though either, because the truth is stupid and he’s being an idiot and he knows it.

“Um,” he goes with eloquently instead, scratching over a small burn scar on his lower neck. 

Lucy frowns and then pushes the covers off her lap, half, rolling, half crawling across the bed and then kneeling in front of him. 

“Talk to me Garcia,” she smalls softly up at him, her hands sliding onto his hips over his navy-blue boxers.

“I’m just being stupid,” he admits with a sheepish smile of his own. “Making a big deal out of a non-existent problem.”

“If it’s bothering you then it’s not stupid and it’s worth talking about.”

“I know but,” he sighs in mild aggravation, settling his hands over hers and rubbing circles with his thumbs on her ring fingers. “But I don’t know how to…”

“Articulation problem?” she asks with a tilt of her head.

Flynn nods. He always finds it hard to put his feelings into words when his feelings are making him feel like a fool. 

“Tell me in Croatian?”

Flynn licks his lips self consciously and takes the half step closer to the bed, letting his knees press against the edge of the mattress. Lucy takes advantage of the lack of gap and shuffles a few inches closer too so that her chest is pressed against his thighs and abdomen, her head resting lightly on his sternum. 

“Gledam- Gledam te i tjeraš me da se ponovno želim zalagati za život.” He starts haltingly. "Gledam vam u oči i vidim zvijezde. A ti me pogledaš i vidim mogućnosti."

He stops again and tries to ignore the tight feeling in his chest. 

“Go on,” Lucy encourages softly. 

“Ne zaljubim se lako, a ipak ti to bude lakše nego disanje. Uvijek volim srcem prije nego što volim svojim tijelom. Primjećujem ljepotu u svijetu i jeziku ljudi prije nego što je vidim u zavoju na prsima ili snazi ramena. Moram to osjetiti u svom srcu prije nego što to fizički poželim. A sada s tobom, osjećam i vidim. Jako te volim.”

“I know that last one,” Lucy grins. “Volim te. I love you. i ja tebe volim”

“Oh my space cowboys, we really need to work on your accent,” Flynn grins, switching back into English. “I love you, but that was painful.”

“More painful than me having to listen to you use space cowboys as an expletive?”

“Oh definitely,” he chuckles, suddenly feeling less tense. “Though thanks to Rufus, I do know some Star Wars cusses if you want something more on a level with your pronunciation.”

“Oh now that’s just mean!” Lucy smirks, sliding her hand out from under his to poke him in the chest. “I think I did okay seeing as I’m relying on google translate!”

“Just remember to pronounce your Js like Ys next time yes?” he sniggers. 

“Shut up and get in the bed,” she huffs, still smiling. Shuffling backwards, she moves back over to her usual side of the bed without letting go over his hand. This leaves him with the choice of following her gracefully or letting himself be pulled over. 

“I was saying that I look at you and I see the possibility of a future for myself again,” he repeats. Not verbatim, even adjusting for phrases which don’t translate directly. But a good enough summary that is both truthful _and_ doesn’t let on that he was being an over emotional sap. 

“Pretty sure you said more than that,” Lucy snorts as she pushes him onto his back and then pulls the covers up over them both. “I’m not going to push, but I know you just poured your heart half out.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles as she sprawls herself comfortably over him. “For not. Being able to say it English. Being truly multilingual- you don’t translate between your fluent languages, you just put words to the emotion. So voicing emotion is easier in your first language.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I understand,” she breathes against the stubble already beginning to prickle under his chin. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I was bothered by it. Besides, I love the way your voice rumbles when you speak in your native tongue. Makes me all warm in all the right places.”

“Oh yeah?” Flynn drawls, feeling his unexpected rush of confidence from this afternoon returning. “Jedno ste od najljepših i najzanimljivijih stvorenja u postojanju.”

“Hmmm don’t need to understand the words to recognise a compliment.”

“To je zato što si divan genij”

“Hey, are you okay with this?” Lucy suddenly asks. “Me being… flirty?”

Flynn blinks, taken by surprise. 

“I mean I just sort of barrelled into it with checking for boundaries or discussing consent. And I’ve always taken consent seriously, but I know it’s extra important to you so I should have asked before I started. And now I basically have you pinned down so you can’t even get up easily if I’m making you feel uncomfortable and I should have-”

“Lucy,” he grins over the top of her. “It’s okay. I just- this is what I was saying before actually.”

“You’re sure? I can stop and we can discuss it in daylight when we’re not a pile of sleepy limbs?”

“No it’s, it’s okay,” Flynn replies thickly. “There’s a word. That. That Lorena used for me. Um, I always just stick to bisexual because using it for myself was one of my first real acts of, well rebellion against my father so saying it and thinking it makes me feel proud. But she said I was also demisexual? Or- or grey-sexual? It means, it means you don’t feel physical attraction to um. To a person’s body until you’re already very emotionally attached. For me specifically, I need to be in love already.”

“I’ve heard of it yeah,” Lucy nods softly against his neck. “Thank you for telling me. For trusting me with this part of you.”

“I am though. To you. Emotionally attached. Very much so. So now, I am becoming aware of how your body makes me feel. Before, I adored your mind and your kindness and intelligence. And that you would touch me without expectation and with only kindness. I love you.”

“Volim te?”

“Volim te,” Flynn agrees with a grin. “But this is why, this is why I said before that consent is very important to me. Because I don’t think of myself or other people as sexual or sexy until I have that closeness first. And then, I feel I must go slow.”

Distantly, he’s aware that the warmth and the relaxed and grounding weight of Lucy are getting to him. That his words and accent are becoming thick with sleep, that he’ll probably start slipping up and dropping articles soon. But now that he’s managing to share his feelings in English, he doesn’t want to stop.

“Garcia?” 

“Hmm?” he rumbles with a smile, giving up on keeping his eyes open.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Da,” he agrees. “Yes.”

It’s just a soft closed mouth press of lips against his own. But it’s the last thing he remembers before sleep takes him and the pleasure of it follows him into his dreams.

* * *

_“How is he?” Wyatt asks, shoving the dried cutlery in the drawer. “That was a hell of a panic attack.”_

_“Sleeping. Again,” Lucy shakes her head fondly. “If you go down the bunk corridor, try to keep it down. His door is open.”_

_“His door is always open,” Wyatt snorts. “Don’t know how he sleeps with so much light pouring into the room, but each to their own. You know what triggered him this time?”_

_Lucy shakes her head. They’d just been talking about dogs of all things, and he’d frozen up and spaced out and eventually slid mutely down the wall to sit on the floor._

_“No, I have no idea,” Lucy sighs deeply._

* * *

Rufus rolls over in his own too large bed and sighs deeply.

Lucy’s right. He’s being a right jerk to Jiya. 

In retrospect, it almost feels like he’s been belittling her for something akin to religion. Just because he’s a bona fide atheist doesn’t mean that everyone else should be. He knew from almost the moment he met Jiya all those years ago that she believed, that she was Islamic. 

Yes, she’s adapted the face of her religion to fit with her personal morals and the western influence she was raised with, but that doesn’t make it lesser. The point is, Rufus already knew she was spiritual and theistic and already loved and supported that part of her long before these visions began. 

Wyatt’s right too. 

Just because he doesn’t understand her faith in them, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t support her with them. If he can remember to brush his teeth after eating bacon for her, then he can damn well get his act together here as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ace/Aro exclusionists get rekt. Ain't nobody got time fo' dat. 
> 
> Flynn is using "Physical intimacy" here when what he really means is sexual intimacy. Boy, I know you're tired and comfortable and talking in your second language about a concept that you only know about because Lorena told you That One Time (she told you lots of times babe), but you should still realise that "physical intimacy" is the wrong term when the woman you love is lying on your naked chest in bed and you're whispering _I love you_ to each other in multiple languages.  
> (I do love me a run on sentence)


	27. Chapter 27

Flynn follows Lucy down to breakfast in his usual early-morning daze.

He hadn’t managed to roll out of bed until Lucy had already finished doing both her hair and makeup, and he’d only done it even then because she was laughing at him and poking him in the ribs. How he then got most of his clothes on, he’s not entirely sure. 

But he’s respectably dressed, hair dampened and combed neatly back in an approximation of the eras current popular style. Wyatt straightens his tie for him when they meet at the top of the main stairwell but given that Lucy hadn’t done so herself before they left their room, it can’t have been that bad. 

Rufus is waiting for them in the hotel’s atrium, having braved the brand new and questionably safe elevator. Flynn likes to think himself a reasonably fearless man after all he’s survived and experienced, but he’d taken one look at the questionable 1918 _hydraulic driven_ lift system and noped the fuck out. Rufus would always be an engineer at heart though, and to the rest of the team’s horror, had been eager to ride the damn death trap as much as possible. 

“Seriously, it’s perfectly safe,” Rufus rolls his eyes at them as they stomp down the last few steps and head over to him. “You’re more likely to trip and break your neck falling down the stairs than you are to die in an elevator accident. An average of 27 people per year die that way versus 1600 stair fatalities, and most of the former are elevator mechanics.”

“Those are modern statistics man,” Wyatt grumbles as they enter the restaurant and return to the same table they claimed last night. With it not even being 7am yet, the restaurant is almost empty except for the smartly dressed wait staff. “Modern elevators have like, four to eight times more cables than necessary, a bunch of electromagnetic breaks in addition to the standard hydraulic ones, _and_ a whole series of shock absorbers in the bottom of the shaft. 1920s elevators decidedly do not have all those safety features.”

“Well look at you, Mr knowledgeable,” Rufus grins, clapping his friend on the shoulder and then handing a breakfast menu card over. 

“Jess did a module on media-enforced phobias for her sociology degree,” Wyatt shrugs. “One of her case examples was based on over exaggerated elevator explosions in movies.”

“And you just happened to memorise it?” Lucy asks with a teasing smirk as she takes a menu for herself and holds it so that Flynn can see it too. Flynn scans the options lacklustrely and silently wishes cocoa pops or puffs had already been invented. Alas, they’d have to go forward passed the 1950s for that to become an option.

“Some things just stick in your head,” Wyatt shrugs as a waiter finally scurries over and to ask for their drink orders. “Right Bandit?”

“Hmmm?” Flynn rumbles distractedly, still half asleep. “Random facts, yes. A chef’s hat is called a toque and the 100 pleats are symbolic of 100 ways to cook an egg.”

“Why do you know that?” Wyatt laughs once he’s ordered four coffees and a stack of toast as a starter for them all. 

“Why not,” Flynn shrugs. “Did you also know that some cats are allergic to people?”

“Aw now that’s just sad,” Rufus pouts. “Here’s one that Connor told me and is unfortunately true. Apples are native to Asia and the oldest known apple pie recipe was written in England. Ergo, apple pies are not American at all.”

“Mmm, apple pie,” Wyatt practically drools. “I should have gotten some last night.”

“Nothing stopping you from having a slice for breakfast,” Lucy snorts, flipping their menu round and pointing to the pastries section in small print on the bottom left corner.

“Does custard exist yet?” Wyatt asks eagerly. 

“Custard has been around since the middle ages Wyatt,” Flynn snorts. “Even egg-free custard is coming up 100 years old now.”

 _“Now_ now or 2017 now?”

“Now now,” Lucy grins. “1837, Alfred Bird. He invented it because his wife Elizabeth was allergic to both yeast and egg.”

“Oh,” Flynn sulks. “I thought it was 1827 and I didn’t know his wife’s name.”

“You were close enough dear,” Lucy pats his hand consolingly.

“You know it really sucks being the only non-genius,” Wyatt sighs through a lopsided smile. “I wish I could memorise things in an instant the way you guys all do.”

* * *

By 07:10, they’re climbing the stairs back up to their rooms. 

Flynn had booked them out for two nights, so they can safely leave their belongings in them while they deal with the sleeper and any other Rittenhouse members that dare to show their faces. The mothership landed somewhere nearby about an hour ago now, so as soon as they unlock their rooms, they all pull on their holsters under their jackets, check their guns with practiced efficiency, and then reconvene in the hallway ready to get started for the day.

“Sketches,” Lucy says as she hands Wyatt a sheet of paper. “And fake sepia photos that Jiya made for us. I’ve just added fake dates to the back of them in pencil; try not to rub at the writing too much so I can erase it all for reuse later.”

“How’d you find a photo of Emma in the right period clothing?” Wyatt asks with raised eyebrows as he looks down at the small polaroid-like image.

“Photoshop,” Rufus smirks. “We made a few up once Connor had built a tiny printer for us. All we had to do was edit some of the old staff photos from the Mason Industries archives. These printouts are small enough that even people familiar with modern technology wouldn’t be able to tell they’re fakes without scanning them with high end tech.”

“Anyone before the 1970s ish has no chance of telling,” Lucy grins evilly. 

“I’ll try and pickpocket us a police badge or two first chance I get to add to our collection in the bunker,” Flynn adds himself. “In the meantime, I made a stack of fake Pinkerton IDs; Christopher’s idea after I handed over the FBI badge I stole in San Antonio. Mind the ink on your name Wyatt; it might not be dry yet.”

“I’m learning entirely too much about espionage and spy-craft,” Wyatt sighs as he slips the three-colour card into his inner jacket pocket. “I’m increasingly unsurprised that Agent Christopher is keen to pull me out of the Military and into government intelligence agency work.”

* * *

_“These,” Rufus smirks, holding up a small white cardboard box that has no labels, “are silicon strips. I want you to try wearing some under your sleeves when you’re in the bunker. Maybe when you’re in bed overnight?”_

_Wyatt lurks silently in the corner and mirrors Flynn’s frown._

* * *

With a flash of their fake IDs to President Wilson’s sole security man outside, the four of them are escorted into the presidential suite with almost no fanfare and very little verification. 

Next to him, Lucy is practically vibrating out of her skin in excitement. 

Woodrow Wilson himself is already dressed and has clearly just been taking breakfast in the privacy of his suite, but there’s a hotel concierge already clearing the table when they’re introduced and invited to sit around a low coffee table.

Rufus, long used to the ridiculousness of America’s history, sensibly remains standing and backs himself quietly into a corner as unobtrusively as he can manage.

“Mr President sir, it’s an honour,” Lucy repeats for the third time, sitting as close to Flynn as propriety will allow her too. 

“My man at the door informs me you have picked up some disturbing plans centring on me,” Wilson raises an eyebrow as he adjusts his armless spectacles and then sips from his coffee cup.

“Either you or someone in your entourage heading for Paris tomorrow,” Wyatt nods gravely. “You make the most sense to remove politically for obvious reasons.”

“Remove?” 

“An assassination attempt,” Flynn enunciates clearly. “If you are dead, then you cannot attend the Great War peace negotiations on the continent. Finding a suitable substitute to attend in your place while also dealing with the state-side fallout of a Presidential assassination would be next to impossible.”

“Given that it was a political assassination that toppled the first domino that led to the start of the Great War, it is entirely possible that the negotiations will be cancelled all together and fresh violence could erupt,” Lucy adds. “I’m sure you can understand the potential ramifications to the USA alone.”

“Goodness me,” Wilson shakes his head with a deep sigh. “The world has already seen enough violence. How do you suspect this attack might take place? Have the good policemen of New York been informed?”

“Our man Connors overheard the details just this morning,” Wyatt tells him with a sideways nod towards Rufus, who crosses his arms and nods back mutely. “I spent a short amount of time verifying the information and attempting to glean more, and then we decided that informing you directly was the priority. No sense wasting time getting a call out to the police when we were already in the building.”

“Strange of you to be working with a man of colour,” Wilson frowns. “I allowed lawful segregation to be brought in for a reason.”

“Segregation is precisely the reason he is a member of our team,” Flynn bites out a little too sharply. “Connors has access to peoples and places that us white men no longer do. And the same reasoning explains my wife’s presence. Jameson and I would not dare presume to intrude on women’s private conversations as a matter of propriety, but my Mrs Tompkins encounters no such barriers. Women are oft keener of mind than any of us males anyway, as anyone with a good wife can attest.”

“Yes, the fairer sex do remain a mystery to mankind I suppose,” Wilson chuckles in apparent good humour. “And you are correct; I have met with many a strong-willed wife, my own included. It is for that reason I have considered extending my sympathies to these so-called suffragettes. But no matter; that is a topic for another day.”

“Indeed,” Flynn nods, aware that his tone is still a tad too cool but unable to warm it in the face of such embedded racism and misogyny. “Mr Jameson acquired a photograph of the probable instigator of this unpleasant business. It may not be her that comes forward to attempt the murder, but she is easily recognisable by her distinctive vibrantly red hair.”

“Goes by the name of Whitmore, though she’s apparently fond of aliases,” Wyatt adds as he hands over the tiny faked photograph. “And she’s also fond of getting others to do half her dirty work for her.”

* * *

Of course they’ve barely finished showing the president Lucy’s quick sketches of her mother and great-grandfather and spinning tales for their potential involvement when a gunshot echoes loudly through the hotel.

Flynn and Wyatt are on their feet in an instant, hats abandoned and decorum forgotten as they sprint for the suite’s door. Wrenching it open but being careful to stay behind the cover of the doorframe, Wyatt darts a look down the hallway while Flynn’s eyes drop to the door guard now lying on his back with his neck at an unnatural angle.

Behind them, Rufus has vaulted over the back of the couch the President is still seated on, one hand inside his jacket and no doubt gripping his pistol. With a surge of pride, Flynn realises his friend has naturally fallen into a professional defensive covering stance, using his own body as a shield for the President while still minimising the target area of his own body. 

Equally as impressive, Lucy has shamelessly thrown herself onto the President and pushed his head down behind the back of the couch, hiding him from any gunman’s line of sight. If there were less urgency and adrenaline pumping through his veins, Flynn suspects he would probably have burst out laughing. 

_Clear_ Wyatt signals with one hand. _Proceeding, cover my right._

Flynn throws his own _hold and defend_ gestures back to Rufus as the two of them step cautiously out of the door, pulling their handguns out and racking them with distinctive clicks. 

Wyatt nods towards the elevator doors. Mechanical whirring is reverberating through them when Flynn presses his ear against one side.

 _Downwards_ he gestures after a second of listening; the clattering of the carriage is becoming quieter, indicating it’s moving away.

 _Proceeding, cover my right,_ Wyatt repeats.

And that’s when the first door along the hallway bangs open and some poor innocent congressmen nearly gets a bullet in the brain.

( _Well,_ Flynn thinks wryly, _as innocent as any politician is ever capable of being.)_

* * *

“Senator Wandsworth,” Wilson shakes his head as he IDs the body of the man with a single messy bullet wound in the side of his head.

“Police are on their way,” Wyatt sighs. “Press won’t be far behind them.”

“Do you believe the Senator to be the target, or is my life still also at risk?” Wilson frowns, glancing up at Vice President Thomas Marshall who had come running out of the lift only minutes before and is now stood by the door with a deeply concerned look.

“Unknown at this juncture,” Flynn grunts as he crouches beside the body sprawled at the foot of the bed. “This bullet wound um, the attacker used a… _contemporary_ small arms pistol. Something like a Colt 1917. Or a Smith and Wesson 45 acp.”

“Six shot large frame service revolvers,” Rufus rattles off with a nod. “Blade front sights, notch rear sights.”

“The negro knows his guns,” a portly man in a suit with an overgrown mustache states loudly as he marches in through the doorway, two more suited men and two uniformed officers at his back. “Chief investigative Officer Harolds of the Manhattan division of the New York Police Department. These two fine gentlemen are Captains Summers and Kingely, both of whom are experienced detectives.”

Harolds holds his hand out to Wilson, who clasps it with only a slight disapproving frown despite the lack of deference shown.

“Commissioner Enright himself will be along shortly Mr President,” the Police Chief continues gruffly. “In the meantime, I’ve come to oversee proceedings. I’ve directed my men to begin a sweep of the hotel with the manager’s assistance. Whoever committed this dastardly act will not get away with it, I can assure you sir.”

“Detective Flynn Tompkins,” Flynn steps up to, offering his own handshake. “My wife, the other Detective Tompkins, and fellow Detectives Connors and Jameson.” 

“Dicks, I take it?” Harolds harrumphs, gripping Flynn’s hand far too tightly. Flynn squeezes back just as hard and smirks when Harolds twitches. 

“We’re Pinkertons, yes,” Lucy states, eyeing Rufus’ confused frown sideways. 

“Rather forward spoken of you for a woman,” Harolds glares almost immediately. Flynn clears his throat pointedly, and the unpleasant man snaps his eyes back up to him almost straight away. “Well I thank you for your service in protecting the President, but we’ll take over from here. If you would kindly be on your way now.”

“You don’t want any information from us at all!?” Lucy protests hotly. 

“Sir, you need to control your wife,” Harolds snaps. 

Flynn opens his mouth to snarl back.

But in an unexpected display of support, President Wilson then takes a step forward himself and inserts himself in front of Flynn.

“Mr Harolds was it? I’ll be remembering that name, you can be certain. Now then, I have a busy schedule today as my travel itinerary for the morrow has not changed, but I do expect to be kept updated on the progress of this investigation regardless. I would also recommend that you heed whatever advice these three fine gentlemen _and_ exemplary gentlewoman see fit to supply you with; without their presence, it could easily have been my body that you see on the floor before you. In fact, it was Detective Thompkins herself who risked her life to shield me from gunfire with her body.”

And with that boldly proclaimed, Wilson marches towards the doorway with his back straight and arms clasped behind his back, expression not changing when Summers and Kingely are both forced to scramble out of his way in a hurry.

* * *

Lucy and Wyatt follow after the President to ensure he makes it back to his rooms down the hall in one piece, while Flynn and Rufus find themselves answering a barrage of questions directed at them by Captain Summers. Unlike his superior, Summers quickly shows himself to be far more respectful as well as much more mild mannered and amiable.

“Grew up with four elder sisters,” the man shrugs blandly when Rufus dares to mention this a good twenty minutes into the pseudo interrogation. “I know it is not the popular opinion, especially amongst the police forces, but any man who believes women to be helpless and inferior is a fool indeed. I am fairly certain that all my siblings would still best me in a fight, fair or not. I also know that while it is my duty as man of the house to provide for my wife and children, that my wife would be more than equal to the task if she were afforded the same oppotun-”

“Sir!” A young uniform suddenly calls, cutting Summers off as he strides into the room with his chest almost puffed out. “We found the murder weapon sir, and the woman to whom it belongs!”

* * *

“Definitely a fit-up,” Lucy scowls as Rufus relays the news of Alice Paul’s arrest to her, Wilson once again sat on the couches nearby with a frown. Along with Marshall, two other senators and his personal secretary are now also in the room. Each of the additional men are obvious confused by the time-team’s continued presence and the President’s obvious favour of them over the official police officers.

“A what?” Woodrow Wilson asks as he stands, obviously aggrieved.

“The gun was planted in Miss Paul’s room deliberately, to make her appear guilty of a crime she did not commit,” Flynn grunts. 

“Ah,” Wilson sighs in understanding. “You mean to say she is being framed. I would question why you believe that though. Who even is she?”

“Alice Paul is the leader of the United States suffragette movement,” Lucy supplies with pinched lips. “She’s one of the most influential people in- in current women’s politics. It’s the 4th today, which means the main chapter of the movement are planning to hold a march this afternoon. They hope to gain your attention before you leave for the continent Mr President, and sway your opinion in favour of their cause. Miss Paul committing murder, _any_ murder let alone of a senator… it makes no sense.”

“She’d be trying to curry favour, not alienate you,” Wyatt expands with a wave of his hand. “She was probably in the hotel hoping to speak to you in person before joining her fellows for the demonstration. Likely to give you a set of reasonable arguments to mull over in the meantime.”

“This must be what the information Connors overheard this morning was actually about,” Lucy shakes her head, still sticking to their cover narrative. “I’m sorry for the confusion Mr President, but it would appear you weren’t the target after all. When they spoke of an assassination designed to disrupt politics, they must have meant suffragette politics not Great War politics. Alice Paul is being used a tool to discredit the organisations calling for women to have the right to vote.”

“I would speak with her,” Wilson crosses his arms. “The murder of a senator is no small matter, and I will not let such a narrative disrupt so large a cause without first discovering whether or not it is false. To do otherwise is to deny democracy and good sense.”

“She was _escorted_ to a local police station by uniform before we were even informed the gun had been found,” Rufus huffs sardonically. Its clear from his tone that escorted is a euphemism for overly rough handling. 

“Then find out which station and I will speak to her there,” Wilson demands. “The American way is that of truth and justice, and I will have both.”

* * *

_“Found Flynn walking barefoot in circles around the Lifeboat again last night,” Jiya sighs. “His feet where like goddamn ice blocks and he was shivering like a half-latched window in a storm.”_

_“I presume you managed to herd him back to bed,” Denise grimaces. “Did you get any sense out of him before then?”_

_“Nope, but he was muttering about pistol silencers sounding like a child’s cough for a little while. Mostly he just stared right through me like I was invisible. Even when I sat him on the edge of my cot and pulled some of Rufus’ boot socks onto his feet, he was totally out of it.”_

_“Well at least he’s mostly stable during the day,” Denise shakes her head ruefully. “I just wish he’d start sleeping through the night. The more exhausted he gets, the more of these dissociative states he falls into.”_

* * *

Rufus watches as Wyatt and Lucy disappear into the elevator with the determined President and his protesting VP. 

On his right, Flynn is also watching with narrowed eyes as the doors shut with a quiet, hollow clang.

“Come on Bandit,” Rufus nudges his buddy once the whir of the elevator motors has started. “We promised Lucy that we would scour the crime scene properly now the police have mostly cleared out.”

“Yeah,” Flynn sighs, his hands twitching with obvious anxiety. “Yeah, let’s go let ourselves back in.”

Rufus belatedly realises he should have spoken up when Wyatt volunteered to go to the police precinct; Flynn still lacks the self confidence to do so for himself, and he would clearly be much happier right now if he’d been the one to go with Lucy. 

Too late to say anything now though. All it will do is make Flynn dwell even more on being separated from his partner.

“It’s so weird that you can just walk into places like this with no trouble,” he muses instead as he takes the few steps around the corner and hurries over to open door into Wandsworth’s rooms. “There’s not even a guard on the door and it’s only been half an hour.”

“They left the overshirt Wandsworth was wearing behind,” Flynn grunts as he heads straight for the pile, nodding towards a bloody pile of material at the base of the bed. “Check it for fibres or hairs or whatever.”

“On it,” Rufus calls back as he steps over quickly. “How many sleepers do you think there’ll be this time?”

“Hopefully just the one, but I’ll kill as many as it takes,” Flynn grumbles back as he drops the papers and moves across to the other side of the room. When Rufus glances over his shoulder, the other man has picked up a discarded tailcoat jacket and is rifling through the pockets. “To misquote Ice-T, _disrupt shit, get shot.”_

“The bandit assassin and his humble apprentice,” Rufus grins. “Bang bang and the bad guy is dead.”

“Oh, to be back in the days when you thought murder was terrible,” Flynn sighs back at him with a lopsided smirk. “Now you’re all, let me help Flynn! I want to pull the trigger this time Flynn!”

“B- b– b- bad to the bone,” Rufus laughs. “It’s okay though. I know now that joking about it is just a way to cope with the horror of doing what’s necessary. Thanks for, you know, helping me realise that.”

“Wish you hadn’t had to learn,” Flynn shakes his head as he tosses the jacket to one side. 

“What are you two doin’ in here?”

Rufus tosses the bloody shirt he was still meticulously checking back onto the footboard chest and stands slowly. By the door another young uniformed police officer is standing with his shoulders squared and a look of determination.

“We’re Pinkertons,” Flynn smiles with what Rufus has learnt to recognise as false bravado. “If you let me reach into my jacket, I will get my ID out for you to check.”

“You two are Dicks?” the policeman scoffs in disbelief. “You don’t look like ‘em. Or sound like ‘em.”

“Can I get my ID out?” Flynn repeats.

“No, hands up and turn around,” the grimacing guy demands, pulling a revolver on them.

“We have proper IDs,” Rufus sighs as he nonetheless does as he’s told. 

“Stop talking boy!”

“Put your hand into my left inner pocket and get my ID out yourself,” Flynn tries calmly, rolling his eyes at Rufus in camaraderie.

“I said stop-!”

Rufus flinches as there’s a loud shot and then a choked off groan.

“Great,” Rufus groans sarcastically as he turns back around and unfortunately discovers who pulled the trigger. “It’s Emma. Yay.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should have split this into two chapters. Have not split this into two chapters.

_“Morning Flynnster!” Jiya grins sunnily. She’s in a good mood and she’s going to share it with everyone no matter what they think about it._

_“Hmmm,” Flynn waves back, almost swaying on his feet. Jiya isn’t alarmed; the tall man is always this dopey first thing in a morning. Actually, she’s surprised he’s even out of bed yet as he tends to sleep in unless someone bodily drags him to breakfast. No sign of anyone else, so he miraculously must have gotten up under his own steam._

_“Thought I might make some French toast for everyone,” she smiles, patting him on the shoulder. “If you grab the Nutella from the pantry shelves, I’ll make you some disgustingly chocolatey ones.”_

_“K,” he grunts with a sleepy smile, pulling his hoody sleeves down over his hands. “Hvala.”_

_Jiya presumes that’s Croatian for thank you, and steps round him to fetch the butter and eggs from the fridge._

* * *

The second Emma looks down at the dropped gun next to the corpse she just created, Flynn charges forward.

Burning hatred is swimming in his veins and he moves faster than thought. He slams the heel of his foot into her hip, his hands coming up and shoving her dominant gun arm upwards as she tries to pull the trigger. A second later and he’s yanking the weapon out her grasp, aware that Rufus has moved to cover his now exposed right side. 

In the same instant that Rufus hooks her left foot up to unbalance her, Flynn uses the momentum of his disarm to pull her diagonally forward. 

The sound of shattering glass is loud as she slams shoulders first into the upright piano against the wall and a vase is sent skittering.

In less than a second, Flynn has grabbed her again and pinned her face down, one arm wrenched up behind her back. Rufus steps over with an expression of determination and casually hands Flynn his modern handgun, kneeling on Emma’s still bucking legs and semi-awkwardly settling into one of the disablement grapple positions Flynn has been teaching them all.

“Admit it Flynn,” Emma pants harshly as she tries and fails to buck under their joint hold. “This gets you kinda hot and bothered, doesn’t it?”

“Wow you really know fuck all about him,” Rufus barks in laughter before Flynn can retort himself.

Instead, he flicks the safety off of Rufus’ gun and pushes the muzzle against the back of her neck, trajectory angled up into her skull. 

“Aw, has ickle Rufusy-wufus finally grown some balls?” Emma snorts as she finally stills. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Oh look, she knows fuck all about you either,” Flynn snarls. “Always thinks she’s so clever but really she’ll never be even half as brilliant as you Rufus.”

“Got yourself a little crush there Flynn?” she laughs harshly. “My my, you really are a fickle one. Brooding over princess Lucy while still wearing the wedding ring of your dead wife, and now you’re buttering up this creepy little black cuck too?”

“Okay enough asinine prattle now,” Flynn rolls his eyes, not giving a damn about her petty insults. “I should have put this bullet in you months ago, but I won’t hesitate now.”

“Oh but you should hesitate. You need me.”

“Like hell we do,” Rufus growls. 

“But I know who the sleeper is, and you need me to find them,” Emma purrs in a sickly sweet tone. “If you kill me, you’ll never work out who it is.”

* * *

“She’s gonna double cross us first chance she gets,” Rufus whispers to him as they follow the Rittenhouse woman out of the senator’s room.

“First half-a-chance she gets,” Flynn hisses back just as quietly.

“At least I’m temporarily immortal.”

Flynn does a double take and almost stops walking in shock. 

“What the hell does that mean?” he mumbles with a disbelieving expression as he forces himself to take another slow step. “No one’s immortal.”

“You all told me to take Jiya seriously. Jiya says I die in cowboy times. It’s not cowboy times, ergo I don’t die here.”

“Rufus you can still get your kneecaps blown off or lose an arm without dying!” 

“Oh,” Rufus grimaces. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Will you two stop whispering like a couple of schoolgirls and keep up!” Emma calls behind her, having already reached the top of the stairs. Her face is pinched in irritation, and she’s obviously not happy about how in sync he and Rufus are, how closely they’re watching each other’s backs.

Clearly she wasn’t expecting them to be getting along so well or be so friendly with each other. Well fuck her; Flynn likes his friends, even if they were trying to kill each other this time last year.

“Why don’t you just tell us who the sleeper is and where we can find them,” Flynn growls louder as the two of them slightly pick up their pace and join her. “Then we can all be on our separate ways.”

“Do I look like an idiot,” she drawls.

“Yes,” Rufus deadpans without missing a beat. Emma glares at him, causing Rufus to smirk smugly.

“The second I tell you where to go, you’ll kill me,” she continues. “So instead I lead, and you follow. Assholes.”

Flynn and Rufus exchange another mutual eyeroll and then set off down the stairs behind her.

* * *

“Can you at least generalise where we’re headed?” Flynn grumbles as they step off the bottom of the fourth set of stairs. “Not that I trust you to be honest about it anyway.”

“We’re going to the march,” she replies, surprising him with her apparent lack of evasion. 

“The march? The suffragette march?” Rufus questions as they step around a hotel waiter pushing a cart laden down with used plates and pans past them. 

“Why the march?” Flynn adds. 

“Because the sleeper is going to be in it,” Emma smirks. “She’s a suffragette. And unless you shut up and stop asking stupid questions, you’ll never find out which one she is.”

* * *

_Lucy watches him sleep with butterflies in her stomach._

_He’s facedown, sprawled across his mattress with one foot hanging off one side and the other pressed against the cold concrete wall on the far side. He has his socks and pants on still, but his shirt is off, and he hasn’t gotten under the covers._

_She grimaces slightly as her eyes once again slide over the painful looking scars decorating his back. She’s pretty sure they’re whip marks, and she hates to think something so awful was done to him. She won’t ask about them in case they’re another trigger for him, but they really do make her feel terrible for him._

_But under them… god, his back is so shapely. His shoulder muscles are sculpted and defined despite the lack of care he must have shown his body while in solitary. His waist and ribs are little too thin from the under eating he’s still trying to subject himself to, but the outline of coiled strength is still there. And his arms… Oh to be cradled gently by such controlled power. Lucy has a kink, and she’s unashamed to admit it._

_Her eyes flit away from his delightful biceps to the light scattering of dark hair that rises from the under the band of his boxer shorts, stopping less than halfway up his back. From previous glances, Lucy knows that there’s a similar neat strip up his front, stopping as fine down just above his navel._

_She wonders if he likes that hair being played with as much as he enjoys a hand in the softness atop his head._

_Jesus be damned, Lucy is so fucked._

_Because as heart stoppingly nice as he is to look at… he’s even nicer to talk to and laugh with. Every second longer she spends listening to his clever words and unhidden intelligence, every unguarded moment of vulnerability he lets her see..._

_Shaking her head at herself, she smiles and grabs some of the many blankets stacked on his desk to tuck him in with._

* * *

They leave the hotel and walk up the street for about five minutes. He and Rufus, as always due to their height and colour respectively, get a few odd stares but no one tries to stop them or cause any other problems.

Eventually stopping at a nondescript building on the left side of the road, Emma walks in through the front door like she owns the place. It’s quite possible it actually is a Rittenhouse safehouse, Flynn realises with a grimace.

“Trap?” Rufus mumbles to him quietly as they hesitate by the door.

“Possibly,” he grunts back, easing one gun out of his holsters but holding his jacket over it. Rufus raises his eyebrows and then does the same. “Stay close and watch our six.”

“If you got nine through twelve, then I got our backs,” Rufus nods with a nervous expression.

But as they step through into a dark, musty hallway, nothing happens. 

The hall itself runs the length of the building, a row of half shuttered windows facing out onto the street. Along the back wall, there’s a series of doors, and at the far end, a narrow staircase that heads up and backwards into the building. 

The walls are covered in black and grey wallpaper, dark wood furniture coated in a thin layer of dust sat between each room door. The air is thick and hot despite the coolness of the march weather outside, but Emma stands by one window in her thick pleated dress and frock coat seemingly unbothered by the temperature.

“Drama queens,” she huffs with a sneer as she watches them cautiously approach her. “There’s no one else here. Now follow me upstairs and behave.”

Flynn is no fool and keeps his guard up as he cautiously follows her, Rufus keeping pace with him.

* * *

Rufus jabs and takes verbal pot-shots at Emma while they wait, which fills Flynn with a deep sense of amusement and an even stronger appreciation for his friend. He’s used to the playful side of Rufus sharp tongue now, but when he stops just bantering and really goes for the jugular, the man really knows how to make words cut.

And any time Emma tries to turn the tables on Rufus and starts trying to insult him back, Flynn steps in and adds his own layer of sarcasm, drawing her ire away long enough for Rufus to start up a new round a verbal flaying.

Despite the tense atmosphere and the sense of impending doom, Flynn is quite enjoying himself.

“Seriously, would you two stop sucking each other’s cocks!?” She snaps eventually, her head jarring around so she can stare between the shutters down and out onto the street. “Rufus, I liked you much better when you were a nervous whelp with no self-confidence.”

“Well I learnt how to make much better friends since then,” Rufus grins ruthlessly. “This set aren’t lying Rittenhouse assholes that run off to hide in the 1800s because Rittenmommy told them too. Imagine being made to live in the wilderness for 10 years and then still willingly licking their boots when you finally make it back to the present.”

“It wasn’t even Rittenhouse that got you out,” Flynn snorts himself. “You’d still be there rotting away until the end of time if I hadn’t shown up.”

“You’re underestimating the power you can create for yourself through them,” she snaps back. “I don’t give a shit about Rittenhouse, just what they can give me.”

“A future where women are powerless under the patriarchy and bigotry runs rife? Yeah, sounds like a great time. I’m sure you’ll have fun as a woman living with those social conditions. And actually! You’re not even Rittenhouse blood! You’re nothing but a tool to them, and they’ll toss you aside the instant you stop bending over the table for them.”

“You’d know all about bending over for white boys wouldn’t you Rufus,” she snarls, her shoulders rigid. “Besides, Rittenhouse’s purist family ideals won’t last long and then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“Rittenhouse straight up won’t last long,” Flynn snorts again. “A whole historic organisation against seven people with a tin can and yet you’ve still managed jackshit.”

“Tell that to Chicago,” she mutters darkly with a condescending sneer. “Didn’t do so well there did you, you dickless slice of Wonder bread.”

“Oof, someone’s bitter that they failed to seduce me,” Flynn laughs harshly. “And your little salt and burn only made our lives easier. The number of social revolutions you accidentally jump started with that unholy cock up is actually quite impressive. Did you know that unlike Chicago, Matthias is considered an American liberal haven?”

“Because that idiot Richardson was supposed to stop the fires, not recruit his own little army and raze the place to the ground!” she hisses, giving up all pretence of watching the street for the incoming march and squaring up to Flynn instead. “The shit that little imp caused me… One of these days I’m going to jump back to the year before the inferno and cut his throat before he can even dream of stepping out of line!”

“Oh so you’re not even in control of your own agents!” Rufus huffs, throwing his arms upwards for a second. “And yet you still expect us to trust you with taking out this sleeper!?”

“My father was an abusive asshole and I won’t be a part of creating a world where she won’t be able to up and leave his ass for a better life!” Emma yells. “Slavery, racism? It doesn’t affect me. But this _does!_ This scar here?” she points at her forehead. “His football team lost. This one?” at her chin. “Dinner was cold. And I have a lot more just because he was angry and wanted to. If women can’t vote, if they’re property? Then my Mom will be stuck with him and I with her. If she stays, then I’ll never get to rise to where I am now.”

“You really fucking need to learn about intersectionality and cause overlap,” Flynn drawls, highly unimpressed by her sob story. Big boo hoo. His own father was a violent asshole too, but he can still see the bigger picture. He can understand that there’s more than just him and his own problems in the world and that stopping abuse means tackling _all_ of the root causes, not just the direct link. 

Being a victim does not give you the right to victimise others.

But Emma doesn’t care and clearly never will.

“And you need to realise that I don’t care who’s being crushed at the bottom of the pile so long as I’m on top,” she sneers. “Trust me or don’t; I’m stopping this sleeper and it’s a one-time only deal.”

“You know, I’m suddenly real glad you weren’t around to vote in the 2016 election,” Rufus spits, striding away with his back rigid. Flynn wishes he could follow him in equal disgust, but one of them has to keep an eye on this traitorous Rittenbitch.

* * *

Eventually the first of the women bearing signs and wearing yellow and purple sashes begin to walk silently down the road. They’re heralded by a crowd of men moving to line the street and laughing raucously, jeering and heckling with caustic words. 

“Why are they silent, they shouldn’t be silent,” Emma mutters, breaking the sullen quiet she had fallen into ten minutes ago. “I’m going out to join them. Don’t try to interfere.”

He and Rufus watch her cross to the top of the stairs with unease and distrust.

“We should follow her,” Rufus blurts suddenly as her head disappears below the level of the floor.

“Big mood,” Flynn rumbles.

“What?” 

“It was trending on twitter just before we jumped,” Flynn shrugs. “Tipped to be the hottest new meme.”

“I am so disturbed that you know that,” Rufus sighs as he grabs Flynn’s arm and pulls him after Emma.

* * *

“Flynn?” Rufus unexpectedly asks just before they step out into the crowded street. “What the fuck were you doing on Twitter? We’re not allowed social media dude.”

“I was an NSA agent,” he pulls a face back. “You think I don’t know how to make an untraceable ghost account?”

“You’re showing me how to do that when we get home. God, I miss reddit and tumblr so much.”

* * *

_Denise watches him stretch out next to the bench press and weight set with suspicious eyes. Gripping her mug of coffee tighter, she once again has a silent battle with herself._

_Her instincts say to trust him, that he genuinely is trying to reform himself and be a better man. That he only did what was necessary and hated himself for every choice he was forced to make. That he deserves the chance at redemption and freedom._

_Her rational brain is reminding her that he recklessly tore his way through history, worked with Nazis, erased people from reality, and killed and tried to kill a horrifying number of people. Including once, according to Lucy, a ten-year-old boy who’s only crime was his genetics._

_Problem is, Denise has lived enough years on this Earth to know that her instincts are almost always right regardless of what her conscious brain thinks._

_Dammit. She’ll just have to find a way to give him the mom version of the shovel talk and then sign those damn pardon papers._

* * *

“Wyatt and President Wilson across the way, two o’clock.”

“I see them,” Flynn nods, raising his chin to peer across the crowd. “Any sign of Lucy?”

“Nope,” Rufus sighs as they step out into the march and weave their way over to the other sidewalk. “But I got eyes on Emma.”

“Wyatt!” Flynn calls as they barrel into him a few seconds later. “Where’s Lucy? Did you get Alice Paul?”

“Miss Paul is dead,” President Wilson rumbles as he watches the procession with a pinched brow. “Not that she needs to give a speech to convince me of the worth of her cause at this point.”

“She’s dead?” Rufus blurts.

“Sleeper got to her,” Wyatt replies with a side-eyed glance at the President. “Lucy’s taken over as leader of the parade.”

“Of course the sleeper got to her,” Rufus sighs while Flynn glances over his shoulder to make sure Emma is still behaving. “The sleeper’s a suffragette. Easy access.”

“This… sleeper agent,” Wilson shakes his head, still paying more attention to the street than the conversation. “She is one of their own? What purpose does that serve?”

“She’ll have infiltrated the suffragettes by pretending to be one of them,” Wyatt explains hastily as they move slightly further down the street to keep pace with the main body of protesters. “So she can kill key members of the movement and destroy them from the inside. Like a spy, but one aiming to kill undetected rather than gather information.”

“Is it safe for Wilson to be just wandering around outside on his own like this?” Rufus hisses in his ear. Flynn shrugs with an expression he hopes conveys his lack of knowledge. 

“Probably not, but you try telling the 1919 President of the United States what he can and can’t do,” Flynn mutters back.

“Wait,” Wyatt abruptly says. “How’d you know the sleepers a suffragette?”

Flynn glances sideways at Rufus and hopes he’ll be the one to break the awkward news. Rufus glances back and they both bite their lips. 

“Emma?” Rufus winces eventually. 

“Emma!?” Wyatt cries. “You saw her? Did you kill her?”

“Who’s Emma?” Wilson demands, looking alarmed as Wyatt goes for his gun.

“Emma Whittmore,” Flynn clarifies while hastily moving to stop Wyatt from charging away. “Temporary truce. She’s after the sleeper for us.”

“The enemy of your enemy is your ally,” Wilson nods. “Unpleasant, but oft times necessary. I presume you will be dealing with her after this suffragette murderer is apprehended?”

“That’s the plan,” Rufus mumbles as he does his own quick scan of the march. “Flynn and I are keeping an eye on her.”

“I don’t like this,” Wyatt bites out, settling back onto his heels. “This is stupidly risky.”

“I’ve lost sight of Mrs Thompkins!” Wilson unexpectedly yells. “She was being steered into that alley!”

“Shit,” Wyatt curses, already moving.

“Protect the President,” Flynn gabbles to Rufus with panic suddenly rising in his throat. “And don’t let Emma do anything!”

“What? How the hell am I supposed to control Emma!?”

“You’ve got everything you need,” he blurts as he steps after Wyatt, who has managed to get halfway across the street already.

“I’ve got what!? Your misplaced belief in my abilities!?”

“No!” Flynn yells as he shoves passed some guy yelling _think of the children!_ “You have a gun! Shoot her!”

* * *

He barrels into the alleyway only half a step behind Wyatt, gun out and eyes wide.

Less than a second ago, a loud gunshot had echoed out dully onto the street.

“Lucy!” he yells with obvious distress before he can think better of it. Dovraga ga dovragam, if _anything_ has happened to her, he knows he’ll be scrabbling for more than just the sharpened handle of a plastic spoon next time. And he’ll make sure to aim better than just into his lower abdomen too.

“Flynn!?” He hears her call back shakily as he and Wyatt skid round a corner and almost collide with a tall women in a tweed suit skirt and jacket. 

“O moja ljubavi,” he gasps as he looks over and sees her shaken up but unharmed. “Are you okay?”

At Lucy’s feet lies the body of a woman, a single precise bullet hole in the centre of her forehead.

“Ask me again in five minutes,” she wobbles as Flynn strides over to her and throws his arms around her. “She- the sleeper. She tried to shoot me, but Grace had removed all the bullets from her pistol somehow. As soon as she pulled the trigger though, I um. I did that thing you showed us where you shove their arms upwards and kicked her in the knee. Pulled my own gun on her and didn’t even think about it.”

“You did good,” he breathes into her hair as she shakes against his chest. “You’re alive and you did good.”

“It’s going to feel like this every time, isn’t it?” she mumbles, tipping her head so that her forehead is pressed against the knot of his tie. “I killed Jesse James too. That made me sick to the stomach as well.”

“Yes, yes it will I’m afraid,” he sighs, noticing that Wyatt is riffling through the dead sleeper’s pockets while the other woman -Grace?- stands and watches them all with a look of fascination. “But that’s not a bad thing. When the deaths stop hurting you? When you can think of them with no unease? That’s when it’s time to put the guns down and walk away forever. The horror is what will keep you human and remind you to only ever do what’s necessary and no more.”

“Volim te,” Lucy breathes into his chest. Flynn tightens his arms around her, an echo of the way his own chest tightens.

“Oh would you look at you two little love birds?” A new voice croons from the other end of the alley. There’s the click of a gun, and Flynn yanks Lucy behind him at a speed that surprises even himself. 

“The sleeper’s already dead Emma,” he growls as Wyatt steps up next to him with his own weapon trained on her. “You got what you wanted.”

“So I did,” she grins viciously. “Now get out there and go make that speech. Someone has too Princess, and it’s not going to be me. Terribly sorry lovelies, but public speaking isn’t my forte.”

“What _is_ going on?” Grace harrumphs from where she’s still stood behind them all. “I feel as if I’ve stepped into a torrid love affair gone horribly wrong, as they are all wont to do.”

“I’ll be going now,” Emma waves sarcastically as she begins to back away, gun still held steadily in her other arm and aimed straight at Flynn’s chest. “Try to follow me and I’ll double back and put a bullet in Woodrow Wilson’s brain.”

“What a horrid woman,” Grace frowns as they all watch Emma slide out of sight.

“You have no idea how much an understatement that really is,” Wyatt sighs tiredly as he slowly lowers his arm and clicks his safety back on.

* * *

They stumble back out into the main road as a group.

Next to him, Lucy has taken a couple of deep breaths and seemed to steady herself. Flynn suspects he’ll have to break out the good vodka for her when they finally get home, but she’s holding herself together for now, so he’ll respect her strength and let her cope in her own way for now.

“Guys!” Rufus yells as he sprints up to them all. “I lost Emma! I would have gone after her, but I couldn’t leave Wilson just stood on the sidewalk alone!”

“She was in the alleyway,” Wyatt informs him quickly, looking around at the growing tension of the crowd with wide eyes. “Sleeper’s dead, Emma ran off.”

“Where’s the President now!?” Lucy demands as she also stares frantically around. 

“The Vice, what’s his name,” Rufus gabbles as someone knocks into him from behind.

“Thomas Marshall!” Flynn yells over the rising volume of the crowd as the front line of women begin to clash with the block of police officers.

“Yes him!” Rufus calls back. “He brought a dozen cops over and they went back to the front of the hotel! Said I should find you guys and some woman called Humiston and head over to him!”

“Humiston!?” Flynn gasps, his eyes turning back to Lucy in surprise. “She’s Grace Humiston!? Wait, where’d she go?” 

“Guys, we gotta move!” Wyatt shouts over them while Lucy starts and also stares round in surprise at the women’s unexpected disappearance. “This is about to get ugly!”

“I’ve still got to give the speech!” Lucy shakes her head. “Wilson’s already convinced, but today’s show of solidarity is as important to the suffragettes’ motivation as it originally was to the cause! If no one gives it, they’ll count this march as a failure and might not try again!”

“Dammit,” Flynn grimaces as he’s also jostled by a gaggle of heckling men. “Fine, but stay close to Wyatt and I! Rufus, get clear!”

“Oh hell no, one for all and all against Rittenhouse!” Rufus yells back. “This ain’t cowboy times!”

* * *

This, Flynn realises with a strong feeling of horror, was a total utter mistake on his part. 

There are way too fucking many people crowding around him, shoving, pushing, and lashing out with uncontrolled violence. 

“Jebati, karati, tucati,” he pants harshly as he slams his fist into the nose of a policeman senselessly beating some poor women pinned to the ground. “Jebi se!” he yells as he elbows another in the neck. 

Wyatt goes flying past him spitting his own vitriol, a taut ball of targeted fury. With two more steps, his fellow soldier kicks the feet out from under yet another officer and slams a fourth to the floor with a chokehold. Two brave women immediately snatch up both dropped wooden batons and quickly take to swinging them about with as much violence as their previous holders. 

“At your back!” Rufus calls as he steps behind Flynn, his fists up. Lucy steps up too and also goes back to back with them, and then, as a tight triangle unit, they force their way to the front of the crowd, following the path being created by Wyatt. 

“Rufus!” Lucy yells as the engineer suddenly goes down. In less than a second, the crowd closes around him and Lucy, and Rufus is lost from their sight.

“Stay with Wyatt!” he yells manically at his partner, knowing that he’s vibrating with terrified energy but also knowing he has to get to Rufus quickly. His eyes are wide and his instincts are screaming at him to bolt, to get away from the people, but he squeezes his fists tighter and throws himself back towards his friend. 

He lays out two more policemen as he thrashes his way through people, leaving them to the tender mercies of the enraged women who are still chanting _votes for women_ despite the mounting madness. 

“Rufus!” he calls frantically as sweat drips from his brow and his hands shake even more. “Rufus!”

Another punch, another knee in someone’s groin, and he bites his lip to keep in the panic.

And then he spots him. Surrounded on three sides by uniformed wearing bastards trying to kick his teeth in while Rufus himself rolls across the cobbles gripping a fourth in a stranglehold. 

Flynn’s vision narrows, and after only a second taken to check that Wyatt is still shielding Lucy’s back, he throws himself at the nearest cop. Hauling him backwards by the scruff of his neck, he slams his fist into the man’s teeth and then sweeps him the rest of the way off his feet. Turning fluidly with his own teeth bared in a growl, he throws the guy like a log at the other two men attacking Rufus and bowls them over. 

No longer having to fend off feet and batons, Rufus grins violently and smacks the officer he’s grappling with onto his back, getting one leg either side of his chest with ease and then solidly clipping him twice with his knuckles; once in the nose and once as a jab in the windpipe. 

“Votes for women!” Rufus screams in the man’s face as his eyes roll up and he chokes, blood from Rufus’ mouth splattering all over his face.

“Good job,” Flynn pants, shoving a uniformed man down under a group of furious women’s feet for them to stomp on. Holding his arm out, he and Rufus grip each other’s elbows and haul Rufus to his feet.

“Oh that felt good,” Rufus laughs, blood still dripping from his teeth. “Always wanted to beat a cop up. Racist bastards.”

He punctuates the statement by tripping a running officer up and sending him flying onto his face. Flynn barks a laugh despite the terror singing in his veins. 

The terror he’s finding increasingly hard to ignore.

Jebati, he can’t- he has to-!

“Rufus I’m about to lose my shit!” he gasps panicked a second later as someone is slammed into his back and they’re both sent staggering. “Can’t-! Can’t see! Need to-!” 

In his ears, sound is beginning to muffle and he’s distantly aware that he’s starting to hyperventilate. 

“Shit, okay dude,” he vaguely hears. “Let’s get to the-”

“Stop!” Someone screams over the crowd! “This has to stop!”

* * *

_Jessica swallows hard as she watches Lucy cradle Flynn’s sleeping head in her lap._

_Rittenhouse had told her that this team hated Flynn, that they’d thrown him into jail and left him to rot. That he was an enemy to the Rittenhouse family, but he was even more an enemy to Wyatt’s team. So much so, that they had never even noticed that it was Emma Whitmore that had gotten him arrested, not Lucy’s carelessness as they all believe._

_They’d told her that Flynn was permanently removed from the equation. And yet here he is. Not in jail, and not being treated as the enemy at all._

_But._

_But it’s not actually Wyatt’s team or Flynn that is making her nervous._

_It’s the fact that nothing that happens in this bunker is anything like she was expecting. She thought she’d be walking into the devil’s lair. She thought she’d have to constantly remind herself that it was only temporary. That she just had to grin and bear it until an opening showed itself and she could make her move._

_But now._

_Perhaps it would be better if she didn’t make a move?_

_They accepted Flynn with open arms despite his history with them. Maybe they’ll do the same for her if she fesses up?_

_Because goddammit. She likes it here. And she likes these people. Wyatt is so totally different to the original version she married, Jiya and Rufus go out of their way to make her feel included. Lucy is never anything but polite and friendly and lets Jess cook with her in an evening. Connor and Denise treat her with respect and warmth, and even Flynn takes time to come and speak to her, asking her about literature and her college studies and whatnot._

_She thought Rittenhouse were family. But watching this team? Interacting with them? Maybe it’s her who didn’t know what the word family truly meant until now. And she wants in on it properly, not as an outsider pretending. That caring, that trust. That lack of constant suspicion and lack of expectation._

_She wants it._

* * *

Rufus drags Flynn out of main body of the crowd by one arm. He has to swing a stolen baton a couple of times to make space to move into, but they stagger round a corner free from violence eventually. 

Letting Flynn slide gracelessly down the wall to sit with his head between his knees, Rufus tosses the police weapon to one side in disgust and then straightens his aching back with a loud crack and a wince. 

“Jesus fuck, that hurt,” he moans as he steps next to Flynn and slides his slightly less painful hand into the top of the man’s hair. “Worth it, but dear god getting beat up hurts.”

As he watches, he sees the woman that had climbed atop of a cart to call out the speech be lifted down and carried away despite her obvious protests.

“Can’t see Wyatt or Lucy,” he winces as he crouches down next to the man who, against all odds, is somehow rapidly becoming one of his three closet friends. A best friend on par with both Wyatt and Lucy. “But even if they get lost in the crowd, they’ll have to head back into the hotel eventually so we can meet them there if they don’t find us sooner.”

“Help. Breathe,” Flynn gasps as he shakes like a leaf in the wind. 

“Hey man, look up at me,” Rufus tries, rubbing the hand not in his hair up and down the man’s arm. “That’s it, eyes up. How many stripes can you count on my shirt around my tie?”

Flynn’s eyes flicker downwards, and he takes a moment before choking out a four. 

“And how many can you see on the sleeve of this arm?” he asks with a nod to his left. 

“Um. Um, five.”

“Colour of the sign above the apothecary behind me?”

“Blue.”

“What colour socks am I wearing?”

A shuffle as the taller man cranes his neck to see. 

“Black,” he croaks eventually.

“Count to five out loud.”

“One- one, two.”

“Three, four, five,” Rufus counts along with him, Flynn’s voice becoming steadier as he reaches the last number. “And breath out, two, three, four five.”

“Guys!” he hears Lucy holler, “Guys! What happened!”

“Panic attack,” Rufus shrugs as he sees her and Wyatt rush across from the opposite corner of the crossroads they’re sat adjacent too. “We got it. Right bandit?”

“Ish,” Flynn chokes out through a wobbly smile. “Fuck, fuck, fuckedy fuck.” 

“Breath dude!” Rufus admonishes him lightly with a grin. “Come on, keep on with the counting.”

Flynn gives him the finger while Lucy nudges him aside and craddles her boyfriend’s head in her hands. He can hear Flynn still shakily counting up and down in fives though, so he lets himself be moved away.

“Come on, we should skirt round to the back of the hotel and the go get our stuff,” Wyatt shakes his head as Rufus slowly gets back to his feet. “You look like shit man, what the fuck happened to you?”

“I got pay back for a few hundred years of police brutality against unarmed black men,” Rufus grins, knowing his teeth are still bloody and the cut on his head is still bleeding sluggishly. “Felt good, felt organic.”

“Looks like you got whooped just as much,” Wyatt snorts. “Good for you though.”

“Nah, t’is but a flesh wound,” he chuckles. “Besides, Flynn went badass on the ones that pinned me down.”

“That’s because I _am_ a badass,” Flynn grumbles, peering owlishly over the top of Lucy’s shoulder. “Someone help me up? I need a damn beer and a bar of chocolate, and then I want to go the fuck home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted more Grace Humiston in this, but Flynn literally never interacts with her for the whole episode. Neither does Rufus, but hey ho. 
> 
> Make sure you leave Mr Flynn your love; he needs it after that.


	29. Chapter 29

“Quick in and out and then straight back to the Lifeboat,” Lucy insists as Wyatt crouches next to a back service door behind the hotel. In the Plaza out front, the protest turned riot is still raging, with more women and their supporters pouring in to face down the recently reinforced squadron of police officers.

“Do we talk to the President again or try and avoid him?” Wyatt grunts as he turns the makeshift lockpick made out of one of Lucy’s hairpins. 

“Avoid him,” Flynn grunts, adjusting Rufus’ arm over his shoulder. “Rufus needs an icepack or twenty and I desperately need to be not-outside. Sooner we’re back to the bunker, the better.”

“I’m in so much pain,” Rufus moans melodramatically. “I think my ribs are broken. My pride definitely is.”

“Got it,” Wyatt hisses in victory as the door pops open. Standing quickly, the Texan man cautiously peers into the dark hallway beyond. “Clear, come on.”

Wyatt steps through first, Flynn swiftly following half carrying Rufus. Lucy brings up the rear, shutting the door behind them and plunging them all into near darkness. 

Flynn shivers but keeps walking.

“Storage cupboard,” Wyatt announces quietly when he tries opening the first door on the left side. “Mostly vintage cleaning equipment. There’s a toolbox too though, and I think this is a bag of weed?”

“Oooh yes, take that,” Flynn smirks.

“Guys no,” Lucy hisses.

“Guys yes,” Flynn pouts. “It’s legal in California! Weed brownies!”

“It’s 1919! You’re not bringing historic dope to the future with us! Just get Connor to sneak out and buy a baggie when we’re back!”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t done that already,” Rufus winces as he shuffles. “But can we please just get a move on. The swelling on my ankle is gaining swelling atop the swelling.”

When Wyatt continues to hesitate, Lucy snatches the bag out his hands and shoves in back behind a row of square paint tins. With another pointed look, she then pushes the door shut, almost clipping Wyatt’s nose as it swings passed him. 

“Honestly, I’m living with a bunch of emotionally unstable teenagers with compulsive kleptomania,” she mutters as she sweeps past Wyatt and ignores the other two doors lining the corridor. “You’re all worse than college freshmen at times, I swear.”

* * *

Flynn deposits Rufus on his bed once they make it back to their rooms. He was forced to take the elevator up as there’s no way Rufus was going to attempt the stairs, and he’s still shivering with anxious tension. 

Lucy and Wyatt catch up to them a few minutes later, and in short order, they’ve all packed their clothes and toiletries into their stolen suitcases. 

Realising his own case is only half full and thinking of that cupboard Wyatt had opened downstairs, Flynn takes a moment to glance round and then starts helping himself to some of the smaller items of décor. Lucy frowns disapprovingly at him as he wraps a petite mantlepiece clock in a sock, but he merely raises an eyebrow with a cheeky grin and points to the well-stocked bookcase by the window.

That makes her snort and apologise, and she crosses over to it and starts pulling volumes out at random, glancing over the front covers briefly before either putting them back or tossing them towards her own luggage.

Flynn double checks that his pilfered crystal-cut whiskey tumblers are safely stowed and won’t roll around and smash against the hand carved wooden chess set, and then latches his case up and goes to help Rufus back to his feet.

* * *

Wyatt pulls their boosted car up onto the side of the dusty farm track they’re on and undoes the wiring he twisted together to hotwire the engine on. 

“Lifeboat’s just the other side of these trees,” he nods as the engine’s rumble dies and begins to tick over. “You good to drive Rufus?”

“I managed it with a bullet in me, didn’t I?” the other man grumbles back, flopped sideways in the back seat with his head in Flynn’s lap. “Besides, you fly the Lifeboat, not drive it. ‘m a pilot, not a driver. Big difference, largely in skill level.”

“This is why I call you fly-boy,” Flynn grins as he lifts Rufus’ shoulders up and then opens the car’s backdoor. “You’re being as pretentious as any air force prick the world over.”

“Piss off, you’re a qualified fighter jet pilot,” Rufus huffs playfully as he slides out with a pained groan. “You flew for the USA for six months before going back to the Army. Saw that in your records back in Mason Industries.”

“Yeah, and I hated it which is why I only lasted six months,” Flynn chuckles as the four of them head for a gap in the hedge which will let them into the field adjacent to the small wooded thicket. Sliding through it one by one, they set off down the edge along the treeline, careful not to leave footprints in the soft, recently ploughed mud which looks as if it’s just had seed potatoes sown into it.

“Hang on,” Lucy says in a questioning tone once they’re almost to the corner and about to turn westwards. “If you’re flight trained, have excellent reaction times, and can computer code? Why exactly are we not training you as a backup Lifeboat pilot?”

“Because… that sounds like a terrible idea?” Flynn weakly protests into the sudden silence. 

“You don’t actually need much coding, and I could add some UI to the system that would remove it altogether actually,” Rufus muses. “Huh, if I did that then there’d be nothing stopping all of you from learning.”

“I’d really rather not,” Flynn grimaces honestly, aware that his heart rate has picked up. He fiddles with his glasses, pushing them further up his nose and reaches out to grasp Lucy’s hand as they continue walking.

“Fair enough,” Wyatt shrugs with easy acceptance. “But Lucy and I could start learning the basics, and we should look for other ways we can skill share and you know, um, share knowledge.”

“Remove single points of failure,” Flynn nods. “Makes sense to be honest, but I’d rather stick to assisting Lucy with the historical tracking than learn to pilot.”

“Jiya can teach you more coding,” Rufus suggests as the Lifeboat comes into view. “I can show Wyatt some mechanical engineering seeing as he’s already good with his hands… You guys already got the self defence and combat training covered.”

“Languages,” Lucy suggests, stepping ahead of the group and standing on one of the Lifeboat’s legs to reach for the hidden door release. “Flynn’s a polyglot, my French is good, and Wyatt knows German.”

“Doubt we’ll need Japanese unless Rittenhouse decides to expand to global domination, but I’m pretty fluent,” Rufus smirks. “Oh wait actually, America had a whole bunch of nasty Japanese internment camps during World War Two. Guess it might be useful after all.”

“Alright, we’ll talk to Agent Christopher and then put our heads together after we’ve all eaten and had a good night’s sleep,” Lucy says firmly as she lets Wyatt help her up into the time machine. “For now let’s just get home and relax for a bit; we’ve earnt it.”

“Arms up Rufus-doofus,” Flynn chuckles as he lifts the engineer up and hoists him up into Wyatt’s waiting arms.

* * *

Flynn drapes himself backwards over Lucy’s lap and hands her the second spoon. 

She immediately tugs the tub of ice cream out of his other hand. 

“Hey!” he pouts, peering up at her with his bottom lip sticking out comically. “I wanted that!”

“You can’t eat lying flat on your back,” she grins, tapping the back of her spoon on the end of his nose. “Besides, you’ll fall asleep in 10 minutes like that.”

“Will not,” he grumbles, crossing his arms across his chest. 

Dressed in clean, soft, 21st century clothes, he already feels much better than he had back in 1919. Lucy is wearing his grey hoody again, and he’s pulled on a soft cotton v neck jumper. A deep blood red, as he’s unashamed of his colour preferences, over a plain black tee. He’d thought about putting on a simple pair of dark cargo pants, but desire for comfort had won over his sense of style and so instead he’s stolen a pair of Wyatt’s fleecy gym pants.

A pair of thick woollen boot socks that he’s not sure who they actually belong to complete his lazy look, his boots kicked off and left back in their room down the hall.

“Are you willing to bet money on that Mr Flynn?” Lucy laughs as she digs her spoon into the chocolate ice-cream and then shoves a large scoop into her mouth.

“I don’t have any money to bet with,” he grins. “Unless you’re interested in the gold certificates I just brought back, or the handful of National Bank notes I’ve got in my bed side drawer. Nothing that’s legal tender in 2017.”

“I’m pretty sure collectors would go mad for all of those at auction,” Rufus groans, limping over to the opposite couch and sinking down onto it. “Next time we end up in the civil war period, I’m pocketing as many original nickels as I can manage.” 

“My paper money won’t stand up to carbon dating tests,” Flynn grimaces. “They’d come up as only a few years old. Otherwise I’d be all over that idea. Coins might work though.”

“You could just open a bank account,” Jiya suggests as she joins her miserable boyfriend with another tub of ice-cream and two more spoons. “We can track which bank gets bought out by who through history, and then you guys can rent a safety deposit box and leave instructions.”

“That sounds very illegal,” Lucy raises an eyebrow as she cups the back of Flynn’s head and makes him tilt it up so she can spoon feed him a mouthful. “Which I guess means we’re doing it.”

“If I say no, will you ignore me?” Agent Christopher asks as she claims the last empty couch for herself. Placing a tray of open beer bottles onto the coffee table, she then opens up a leather briefcase and pulls a handful of files out. Everyone groans, knowing damn well what those files will contain. 

“Mercy upon the pain inflicted,” Rufus whines as he makes grabby hand motions at the condensation covered bottles. 

“Not a chance Rufus,” Christopher grins unrepentantly. “And you’re not drinking while you’re hopped up on pain meds either. Flynn sit up before you fall asleep.”

“Don’t wonna,” Flynn moans overly-dramatically while Rufus mock-sobs.

“Up!” she repeats, with a raised eyebrow.

“But mooooooom,” he drawls with a shit-eating grin. 

“By Skandu, I will shoot you in the kneecap,” she threatens. Flynn knows she’s only joking, but he still levers himself upright with a loud grumble. Lucy immediately inserts herself under his arm, shoving the ice-cream tub at him and grabbing the tablet computer she’d brought from their room earlier.

Once they’re both resettled, Jiya is sent to fetch Wyatt, and they all begin making their field reports and going through the motions of debrief.

* * *

When Christopher eventually gathers all the paperwork back up and wishes them a good night, Flynn is about ready to fall asleep standing up. Not that he is standing up. 

Or even really awake enough to class it as _falling_ asleep. Definitely most of the way to _fallen_ at this point.

“Draga, moja ljubavi come on, stand up,” Lucy yawns at him, tugging on his arm gently. 

“Tha’s Croatian,” he mumbles sleepily. “Accent’s better. Sounds nice.”

“Yes well, I need some niceness after discovering that Alice Paul is just entirely gone from history,” she mumbles. She’s been saying this all evening and while Flynn and the team have done their best to reassure her, he can tell it’s going to be a sore point for a while.

Not even the knowledge that Grace Humiston had stepped up to the plate _or_ that President Woodrow Wilson had not just ratified the nineteenth amendment but had initiated some law enforcement reforms 30 years early is enough to reduce her concern. 

“Tvoja ljepota mi oduzima dah,” he rumbles as he staggers to his feet and throws him arm over her shoulders. Their notable height difference means he has to stoop to do it, but it’s worth it for the way she slides a hand up his wrist and forearm and then smiles warmly up at him. 

“Um. Visok si - visok si i zgodan?” she tries, stumbling over the _si i_ combo and softening the s in _visok_ too much. 

“Why thank you,” he chuckles regardless. Pulling her hand up to his to drop a kiss on her knuckles, he once again finds himself wondering how Earth he’s allowed to have this, -have _her-_ after everything he’s done. 

He lets himself be tugged to bed with a smile on his face.

* * *

“No.”

Flynn mumbles groggily and rolls over. Lucy had been pressed up against his back, effectively spooning him despite the impracticality of his height. Now she’s flat on her back with her face screwed up in distress.

“No,” she repeats quietly. 

In her sleep, she shakes her head minutely.

“Lucy?” Flynn slurs, voice thick with the tiredness he’s struggling to throw off. “Dragana?”

“Said no,” she moans quietly as one of her hands rises suddenly and flails in front of her face.

“Lucy!?” Flynn rasps, rapidly becoming more alert. Dragging himself onto his hands and knees, the chill of the bunker air hits his back like ice as the covers slide off him, but that’s the least of his concerns right now. “Sweetheart, wake up.”

“Mom no,” she whimpers this time. Flynn feels his heart break for her. 

“Lucy darling,” he tries, reaching out with one hand to trace a single finger gently down her cheek. “Please wake up.” 

She doesn’t.

“Molim te, moje sunce i moj mjesec. Molim te probudi se,” he croons softly, cupping her cheek against his palm and reaching out to gently shake her opposite shoulder. He’s careful not to lean right over her, wary of her startling awake and feeling caged in. 

“Lucy ljubavi moja!” he calls louder.

“No!” she shrieks, her eyes flying open with a harsh pant. 

Flynn hastily moves his hands back, giving her space until she’s aware of her surroundings enough to be able to consent to him touching her. She gulps down several more deep, shuddering breathes, and then visibly shivers, alertness returning to her gaze. 

“Lucy?” Flynn says softly, still kneeling down next to her.

“F- Flynn?” she trembles, her eyes flicking towards him. “Garcia?”

“I’m here,” he tells her quietly, opening his arms in invitation. 

Her expression shifts from panic and fear to anguish almost instantaneously, and she throws herself at him hard enough that he’s almost bowled over backwards. Straightening his legs carefully so that he’s not cutting off his own circulation, he slowly wraps her in his embrace and lets her sob into his bare shoulder.

Cautiously as he doesn’t want to catch a snag or knot and pull it painfully, he slides the fingers of one hand into the back of hair until the tips rest on the nape of her neck. Tipping his head sideways, he hunches slightly over and lets his cheek rest atop her crown.

“Shhh, I’m here draga. It was just a dream,” he soothes as she hiccups and pushes her face harder against the top of his chest. 

She only shakes her head and tightens her grip around him.

* * *

He does not know how long he sits there, with Lucy huddled against him while he mumbles nonsense in every language he knows. 

At some point her tears begin to run silently and her grip slackens. She doesn’t let go, but it’s less of a desperate death-grip. 

More time passes and her breathing evens out. 

Slowly, he leans back and drags the covers and blankets with him by one hand. 

Both their skin has pebbled with goose-bumps, the bunker never being particularly warm even during the hottest of summer days. At night Flynn often wonders how close they come to seeing their breath condense in the air as they breathe. 

Clumsily despite his care not to wake her, he spreads the covers back over them and seals the chill away. Once he has her settled, one of his arms still around her back and his shoulder being used as a pillow, he reaches out sideways blindly until his fingers brush the tee he discarded on the floor. Normally he would have folded or at least draped it over the back of the desk chair, but he’d been swaying on his feet in exhaustion thanks to New York of 1919, and so hadn’t bothered. 

Now he’s glad for his tired laziness as it provides him with a makeshift cloth.

He smooths the soft cotton down over the exposed side of Lucy’s face first, gently wiping away her drying tears and the general tackiness that comes with a strong emotional release. Using his fingers, he then cards back her hair into a rough semblance of order and then slowly raises her cheek from his chest so that he can pat his own chest dry. 

The underside of Lucy’s face is left until last, and she sleepily protests as he cleans her up but does not fully wake up. 

Once she’s resettled, he tosses the tee back of the floor, stretches his free hand up under his head, and settles in to wait for daylight to start creeping in through their open door.

* * *

“Wha’ you doin’?” he protests weakly as a cold hand presses against his brow. “M’ sleepin’.”

“I know, but you need to eat,” a voice says dryly from somewhere close by.

He cracks an eye open and finds Agent Christopher leaning over him with one eyebrow raised sardonically. Apparently he's dozed off on the couches again. 

“Where’d Lucy go?” he asks gruffly as he forces himself to sit upright. His back aches like a bitch and his shoulder cracks loud enough to make him wince in pain as he stretches; he must have curled up into a stupid position while he was impromptu napping. 

“Bathrooms with Jiya,” Christopher shakes her head, stepping back. “Come on, I’m almost done making paninis.”

“She talk to you yet?” he asks with another groan an he levers himself to his feet. Goddammit, he really needs to start sleeping at night in their actual bed instead of catnapping in dumb places at random hours instead. He’s too old for this shit; long gone are the days that he could sleep wherever he liked without consequence.

“Yes,” Christopher replies as she opens the oven door and pulls out the grill pan, her lips thinning in displeasure. “That girl of ours… let’s just say that if she weren’t already an adult, I’d be slapping adoption papers down in front of her. Carol Preston and I are going to have quite the reckoning some day, and it won’t be _me_ tied to a chair this time.”

Flynn shakes his own head. He’d like to have words with her mother too. Violent words. 

“Has she said anything to you about her six months with Rittenhouse yet?” Christopher asks as she tips six of the hot sandwiches onto the waiting cutting board. The smell of tangy curry wafts up gently from them, and despite his lingering appetite problems, Flynn realising his mouth his watering. 

“No,” he grimaces. “Other than two weeks of it being in solitary. I didn’t know about the poor world war one Tommy Emma forced her to shoot until this morning though, so I’ll just keep giving her time,” he shrugs. “She’ll either tell me one day, or she won’t. Her prerogative.”

“Something we agree on then,” Christopher smiles with another shake of her head. “I’ve forbidden the others from ever asking either.”

Flynn nods once and then slides into his usual seat at the table. He would try to help with finishing lunch prep, but the one time he tried, Christopher had slapped his wrists and arms with a spatula until he did as he was told and got out of the way. Having seen her do the same thing to both Jiya and Connor since then though, he doesn’t take it personally.

In fact, the only person she’ll let help her with any kind of cooking is Lucy. 

“How are you doing anyway?” she asks him once he’s settled. The second batch of paninis are put under the grill to toast, and two bowls of mixed salad are slid onto the table in front of him. 

“Me?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “Didn’t think you cared all that much?”

“I don’t have to like you to care about you, young man,” she growls, staring at him menacingly down the blade of a kitchen pairing knife. “Answer the damn question.”

Flynn raises his hands in surrender even as he smirks.

“Sounds a bit contradictory,” he licks his lips. “But okay, fine. Doing better than I was now that I sleep most of the way through the night a lot of the time.”

“Gone on many spacewalks recently?”

He cocks his head and considers.

“Lost a bit of time after the suffragette riot,” he admits. “Can’t have been long as I remember Rufus pulling me out of the crowd and then me carrying him back to the hotel. Just the bit in the middle that’s missing. Few hours the week before that I can’t account for. Again, far from perfect but better than last month.”

“I’ve noticed you’re napping less too,” she muses as Rufus slides into the main bay with an eager look. Flynn surmises that he must have been following his nose, as only seconds later, Wyatt and Jess also file in with drooling expressions. 

“Always have been prone to dozing off in the middle of the day though,” he shrugs as he accepts a warm plate and a set of cutlery. "I was the kid at nursery begging for nap time to come quicker every day."

“Oh god,” Rufus moans in delight as he’s handed his own plate. “Jiya and I are moving in with you when we get out of here Denise.”

“You’ll have to take that up with Michelle,” she snorts dryly. She turns to look at Jiya and Lucy who are sauntering in with smiles, both with damp hair. “Now sit down the lot of you. In this family we eat at the table like civilised people.”

* * *

_“He admitted it,” Lucy says quietly. She’s just spent the last half hour trying to get him to eat, as he’d barely gotten three bites down last night and had skipped breakfast this morning. “Just… out of the blue. I was checking the stitching for him because he was grumbling about it being itchy and- he just said it.”_

_“It’s a good step forward Lucy,” Wyatt says, probably trying to be reassuring._

_“I know but… It’s one thing to know that he tried to commit suicide. It’s another for him to just casually shrugs it off as no big deal because it’s “not even the first time Lucy.” Jesus Wyatt, I suspect he’s been suicide idolising for most of his life.”_

_“Fuck,” Wyatt sighs. “I suspected that might be the case. Those are definitely self-inflicted cuts on his left arm. That’s um. Well you know what it points towards, what it often indicates.”_

* * *

Rufus is trying really hard not to eavesdrop, but Flynn and Denise are not making it easy.

He’s just trying to work on the Lifeboat in peace. Get that shielding working for Bandit so the giant can stop throwing up every jump. But they’re stood barely 10 metres away from him and aren’t even attempting to talk quietly. 

About Flynn’s mental health. And you know, personal shit that he shouldn’t be listening to. 

Rufus tosses a spanner towards the toolbox, deliberately missing so that the metal clangs loudly on the concrete. 

“Sorry!” he calls, hoping they take the hint and lower their voices.

They do not. 

Maybe he should just get up and walk off? Is that less awkward? Even though he has all the wiring for the main battery and capacitor bank open and exposed and really shouldn’t leave it unattended?

“And you’re sure you only need thirty milligrams?” Denise repeats having somehow walked _even fucking closer._

“I’m going to have to take just fifteen for the first couple of weeks anyway,” Flynn shrugs. “Then I’ll double it up to thirty. If I’m still not sleeping the whole night after six weeks or so, then I’ll think about taking the full forty-five.”

“I’m guessing it comes as pills?”

“Or liquid. I’ll take either, but tablets are more common and well. Easier to keep on me for missions.”

“Mirtazapine?”

“Yes. You can confirm it against my past medical records if you want to.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Denise waves away. “Just make sure you keep me up to date with any side affects you experience.”

“I only got the initial dry mouth and sleepiness last time,” Flynn shrugs as his feet shuffle into Rufus’ periphery vision despite the fact he’s lying in his back.

They’ve stopped right next to him. Dammit.

“Rufus? Do we need anything restocking in the medbay?” Bandit asks, crouching down to grin at him under the lifeboat. "You've used quite a few painkillers yourself the last couple of days." 

Rufus privately thinks he’d like a whole jug of normal people juice thank you very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what? I don't like this chapter very much but I've already re-written it four times (twice almost from scratch) in the last three days so fuck it. _Neka bude kako jest._


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote half of this while half way to drunk. not bad all considering 😁

Despite everyone’s best efforts to distract themselves and each other, the atmosphere in the bunker is increasingly tense. 

It’s the morning of the fifth day since Rittenhouse last jumped.

They’ve just finished up their morning training session, and Flynn is sitting with the other men of the bunker while Jiya, Lucy, and Jessica all shower. They’ve already put away the mats, guns, and weight equipment and now they’re flaked out on the various couches, Rufus opting to lie on the cool concrete of the floor despite Wyatt warning him the cooling down too fast could cause muscle cramps. 

Flynn scrubs his sweaty hair out of his eyes with one hand again and grins as he listens to the two younger guys bantering back and forth. 

“If the mothership alarm goes off right now, I will go insane,” Rufus moans as he finally sits up. “I’m not getting in that ship until I’ve showered. I feel like I jumped in a lake of bodily fluids.”

“That’s what she said,” Wyatt quips quickly.

Flynn cackles immaturely while both Rufus and Connor groan in disgust. 

“Hey, hey Wyatt,” Flynn chuckles, thinking of some other shitty jokes to pass the time with. “Why wasn’t the baby Jesus born in Texas?”

“Oh god,” Wyatt groans, tipping his head back and grinning at the ceiling. “Here we go.”

“Because,” Flynn snorts. “Because they couldn’t find three wise men to bring the gifts!”

“Christ Flynn, that’s lame,” Rufus sighs while Wyatt splutters through his laughter.

“How many Texan high school students does it take to change a lightbulb?” Flynn tries next. Everyone shrugs, Connor adding on an eye roll. “None, because that’s a college level course for Texans!”

“Aw come on,” Wyatt groans, despite the fact he’s still grinning. “I’m the one who does most of the maintenance and repair work round here!”

“Why’d you even know any Texas puns?” Rufus asks as he grabs his water bottle of the table. 

“I thought you guys had all read the unredacted version of my file?” Flynn frowns back. “My mom was from Texas, and it’s where Lorena and I moved to when we returned from the middle east.”

“You’re a Texan?” Rufus laughs incredulously. “No wonder you like guns and drinking.”

“I think the drinking is the communist block kid in him actually,” Wyatt shakes his head with a smile. “I bet you grew up putting vodka in your cornflakes instead of milk.”

“Rakija rather than vodka,” Flynn licks his lips. “And I tended to have it with my cereal rather than in it.”

“I can’t tell if he’s serious or not right now,” Connor raises an eyebrow. 

“The bottled branded stuff is usually about 40%,” Flynn carries on with a mischievous glance at the oldest engineer. “But homebrew is usually 50% or more, and we had it with literally everything.”

“He’s being serious isn’t he,” Connor deadpans.

“It’s basically a fruit brandy, but the dominant flavours change depending on the region and the city. We mostly had herbal varieties in Split, but I always preferred the walnut stuff.”

“Guys! Showers are free!” Jiya suddenly calls down the corridor. 

Flynn claps his hands on his knees and stands with a grin.

“Seriously, did you actually down brandy with your Wheaties as a kid!?” Rufus begs as they all disperse to grab their washbags.

Flynn merely winks as he walks away.

* * *

Jiya is doing something suspicious in the kitchen.

The flour, eggs, and milk he can understand. Christopher often leaves them baking ingredients and recipes, usually accompanied with instructions to _bake something and cheer yourselves up for goodness sake._

But there’s a lot of food colouring, standard A4 printer paper, and body lotion too. 

And she won’t let any of them near, not even to use the coffee machine or kettle. Wyatt had almost rioted over that, eventually retreating back to his bathroom plumbing in sullen silence. Flynn, having once again been roped into helping out, is actually mildly sympathetic; increasing his caffeine intake is one of the ways he’s been combatting his new antidepressant induced tiredness. 

Not that he wasn’t tired before he started taking them three days ago (see: regular day time naps), but it’s like he’s temporarily backslid into the same state of perpetual exhaustion he was during his first week in the bunker. 

He shakes his head though, promising himself that he’ll finish installing the wiring for the razor sockets before he goes and flops onto their bed for a top up. 

“This stupid fucking cistern won’t sit level because the bastarding floor is uneven,” Wyatt grunts in aggravation. “Which cockwomble laid the concrete in here!?”

“Use some wood splints to chock it up level and then grout the base,” Flynn suggests, taking the screwdriver out of his mouth temporarily. “When it’s dry, rubber seal it”

“That’s a botch job though,” Wyatt sighs. “I hate not doing things properly.”

“You do what you gotta,” Flynn shrugs as he twists another wire into place around the 3-amp fuse. “Besides, we go hurtling through time and space in a botch job Wyatt, and we haven’t died yet.”

“Is this the part where I point out that Jiya has visions, you constantly throw up, and we once had to fix a capacitor with a sheet of metal that Rufus hammered flat in the 1790s and the power flux has never been the same since which is why the overhead light flickers?”

“But did you die?” Flynn smirks, knowing that the meme reference will go over Wyatt head. Ah, where’s Rufus when he needs him?

“Almost yes!” Wyatt protests. “Several times!”

“You’re fine,” Flynn drawls, folding the last of the newly attached wires into the clips on the back of the inset case. “All your limbs attached and everything.”

“For _now,”_ Wyatt scoffs as he tosses aside his spirit level. “One of these days, we’re all going to blow up or get shredded into atoms and tossed into the cosmos or some shit. And that’s if we don’t just ya know, _all get shot or hung or set on fire_ by Rittenhouse.”

“That’s the job though, isn’t it,” Flynn shrugs uncomfortably. Grabbing the multimetre, he checks both the current and the potential difference across his new connections, mentally does the maths to make sure the average resistance is below threshold, and then sets about screwing the cover on. 

Behind him, Wyatt huffs again and splashes some water into the grout powder with rather more vigour than strictly necessary. 

“Sorry,” the other man grunts eventually. “I’m being an ass. Last time Rittenhouse waited this long before jumping again, it was because they’d jumped Denise and were smacking her about in a warehouse. Can’t help wonder what shit they’re up to this time.”

“Christopher has checked everyone’s families, and homeland have been keeping an eye on all their financials,” Flynn grimaces. “Nothing we can do but wait.”

“No excuse for taking my anxiety driven irritation out on you though.”

“We all have our lapses,” Flynn shrugs, thinking about how he’d yelled at Connor for drinking yesterday and then stormed off in a huff. “To err is to be human.”

“It’s just _to err is human_ actually,” Wyatt snorts. “Wait wow, do I know one whole literature thing better than you!?”

“Half a thing, at best,” Flynn shakes his head with a grin. “Unless you can tell me the origin of the quote?”

“Ha, fuck that.”

“It’s the beginning of a longer Latin saying,” Flynn teaches him. _“Errare humanum est, perseverare autem diabolicum_ , which translates to _To err is human, but to persist in error is diabolical,_ sic. It’s usually attributed to Seneca, but not attested in his works.”

“I am never gonna remember that man,” Wyatt chuckles. “Well, I might remember it’s from some Latin mumbo jumbo, but I don’t even remember what e.g. stands for no matter how many times people tell me.”

“Exempli gratia. Literally, for example.”

“I fucking knew you would know that! Ah well, at least I can feel my IQ rising with every passing day in this place. Surrounded by so many amazing nerds, I gotta be gaining points through osmosis.”

“Not sure IQ works like that,” Flynn grins. “Shall we go brave the kitchen again, see if we can stealth our way into some coffee?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt sighs, slapping a sheet of battered chipboard over his bucket of grout. “Yeah I’m gasping for some joe.”

* * *

_Wyatt sighs and hands the Matthias tourist guidebook over._

_“It’s so weird,” Lucy gawps, fully engrossed in the topic. She has Wikipedia open, a stack of books that Denise brought her, and a half a dozen notebooks scattered around. “Almost everything that happened in Chicago originally happened just the same in Matthias. Even seemingly random chances events like muggings seem to have simply moved location but not otherwise changed. Well, as much as I can tell at least. Crime stats are roughly the same until the great depression, and then there’s a sharp decline compared to previously.”_

_“Some of the descendant lines must have changed though,” Wyatt sighs, wishing now he hadn’t volunteered to help her while Flynn napped. “You said only 300 odd people died in your timeline.”_

_“Well yes,” Lucy nods eagerly. “But somehow no one of historical importance has been erased. Maybe there would have been repercussions in the future, but we’ll never know now. On the other hand, this couple here, Henrietta and Charles Reestely. They didn’t exist before, or at least not as figures of note. And now they’re considered to be of equal importance to LGBT history as the stonewall riots! And they’re a mixed ethnic couple!”_

_“Wait, the Reestley report was never written before!?” Denise blurts with her eyes wide. “But that report is why Michelle and I and countless other same sex couples were allowed to adopt children! Did I not have kids before!?”_

* * *

When he rolls over, Lucy is sat leaning against the headboard next to him. Her face is a picture of intense concentration, and she’s holding a pencil between her teeth but not actually chewing on it. A notepad is resting on her knee, and she has an open book held in one hand, the cover an old deep navy woven material, golden edging embossed onto the back cover. 

He lies there and watches her with a smile. 

“Do you want the knots massaging out of your shoulder babe?” she mumbles around the pencil without looking at him as she turns over another page. She frowns, her eyes scrolling rapidly across the words, and then grasps blindly for her notepad.

Stretching and grabbing it for her, he hands it over and then shuffles closer so that he can push his face against her hip. The blanket that was draped over him slides off as he moves, and he shivers slightly as the cool air hits his bare chest and back.

“Probably sensible,” he concedes through a yawn, inhaling the pleasant smell of whatever fabric softener Agent Christopher uses on all their laundry. Above him, he hears the sounds of some quick scribbling, and then the snap of the book closing. 

Both the book and the notepad are shoved onto the upturned box he’s still using as a bedside table, and then a hand slides into his hair. He groans in appreciation and throws one arm over Lucy’s waist.

“Do you want to sit up between my legs, or would you rather lie face down?” she asks him, scritching lightly at his scalp.

“Mmmm,” he groans deeply. “M’stayin’ here a minute.”

Chuckling softly at him, she reaches over to him with her other hand and prods gently at the triple-layer of scar tissue on his left shoulder. The skin itself is tight thanks to the combination of shrapnel wound, whip lash, puckered bullet hole, and associated surgical scars all lying atop one-another, but it’s the muscles below which really give him gip. Especially in cold, damp places.

Like the bunker. 

“Got quite a tense one there,” she hums as her fingers kneed over a lump. Flynn can feel it popping as it rolls beneath her touch despite the fact that she’s barely putting any pressure on it, and he winces into her side.

“Hurts,” he mumbles in the whiniest tone he can consciously manage. 

“Come on, roll over,” she tells him. He can here the laughter in her tone, and she leaves his poor shoulder alone for a second, if only so she can poke him in the ribs instead.

“Fine,” he grumps, shuffling over and flopping with his head just below his pillows. He straightens his arms out so that they’re laid straight down either side of him and does his best to relax into the mattress. 

A second later, he watches as Lucy shuffles off the bed and steps quickly over to the shelves they keep all their toiletries and clean towels on. She grabs a bottle of sweet almond oil, and he yawns again as she quietly snicks the cap open and drizzles some into one hand. 

Climbing back onto the bed, she rubs both her hands together and tucks her knees up against his side, moving his left arm up out of her way. 

Then her warm hands are rippling over his back.

He groans in pleasure. 

“I’ll start along your spine and work my way up to the nasty part, okay?” she informs his gently, her palms already beginning to push more firmly just below his shoulder blades. “You already know this is going to hurt quite a bit, but tell me if it gets to be too much and I’ll stop.”

“Uh-huh,” he moans, feeling his core heat up and his mind go hazy. Gods, he knew he was skin hungry, but this is ridiculous. It’s not even the first time that Lucy has-

* * *

He blinks and finds himself sat backwards on a kitchen chair with Jiya frowning down at him.

“Huh?” he slurs, shaking the fog out of his brain.

“I said are you sure you want a surprise?” 

“I-? What?”

Jiya’s frown changes from one of concentration into concern.

“It’s Halloween,” she says softly, clearly realising that he’s lost time. “I made homemade face paint and baked a load of iced cookies. We’re going to play dumb kid’s games and watch some cheesy spooky movies.”

“Oh,” he bites his bottom lip. “I was with Lucy. Had a nap and then- um, now I’m here?”

He rolls his shoulder, and the muscles don’t creak or pop. His skin feels a bit sensitive as his navy button down moves over it, but the knots are gone, and his nerves don’t twinge up his neck.

“That was about forty-five minutes ago,” Jiya tells him. “You and Lucy came through here looking pretty dazed, Rufus made a joke about post coital glow which lead to her teasing Rufus mercilessly. Talking about how you melted into putty under her hands. Then I got the pumpkin out that Denise snuck in for me with the groceries, and I recruited you to help me with it seeing as you’re supposed to be good with knives. Bit of a mistake that one. Look at it! You gave it anxiety!”

Flynn glances behind him at the kitchen countertop, and there is indeed a badly cut pumpkin with a torch inside it sat next to the microwaves. Its eyes are both different sizes, and they’ve obviously tried to cut pointed teeth but slipped up and carved some of them off. 

There’s a ragged hole in one side, and the hunting knife is still stuck in the other.

Oops. He always has been terrible at anything resembling art.

“Where’s Lucy now?” he asks as he turns back around; the sooner he can distract from his apparent carving fuck up, the better.

Jiya grins at him, her eyes practically screaming _you’re so predictable, you giant dork._

“Rufus is showing her and Denise some Lifeboat designs. He just got that shielding working, which means he can now safely add things to the outside of the lifeboat shell between the gyros. The general consensus is as many solar panels as we can manage.”

“Oh, that sounds like a good idea,” he hums, eyes flicking down into the silo area of the main bay. He can only see a slither of Lucy from this angle, but he suspects she’s leaning on Agent Christopher. 

“You told Connor as much when he suggested it 20 minutes ago.”

“Kvragu,” he grumbles. “I hate these damn spacewalks.”

“That what we’re calling them now?” Jiya snorts, picking a small plastic tub of black goop back up. “I suppose that makes sense. Now sit up and let me cover your pretty face in almost as pretty colours.”

“Oooo you think I’m pretty,” he leers, before doing as he’s told.

* * *

“Ha!” a Harley-Quinn painted Wyatt crows in delight as he slaps down his card. “What gives me uncontrollable gas? Poorly timed holocaust jokes!”

“Wyatt!” Denise and Lucy gasp together, both thoroughly scandalised. Flynn and Rufus merely glance at each other before they break into unholy snickers. 

Cards against humanity truly is a game for the worst sort of people.

* * *

Flynn sneaks himself another bat shaped butter cookie and pours some more Orangina into his glass. Careful not to smear his own face paint, he munches on his treat and ambles back to where Lucy is spiking her tropical juice with vodka. 

“Want some?” she asks him joyfully, holding up the bottle. 

“Just a small splash,” he nods. “Not even a full measure or I’ll get insta-drunk.”

“Meds?” she pouts sympathetically as her hands come up to rest on either side of his chest. “You don’t have to have any booze, no pressure.”

“Yeah. It’s fine, I’ll just have to watch my limits for another week or so until everything levels off.”

“You’re already sleeping better I think,” she smiles, her hands sliding upwards and hooking behind his neck. She tugs very slightly, and he obliges her by bending down and pressing their lips chastely together. 

“I’m sleeping more, period,” he smiles slightly self-depreciating, straightening back up and putting his own arms around Lucy’s waist. 

“But you’re cute when you sleep,” she smirks up at him. The effect is quite strange thanks to the Wonder Woman mask painted onto her forehead and brow. Flynn has a matching superman one, complete with a series of lines down his nose and cheeks to give him a comic-book line art look. 

“Not as cute as you,” he teases back, flexing his hands against the small of her back.

“Flatterer,” she blushes as she starts twirling her thumbs on the nape of his neck. 

“Get a room!” Rufus jeers loudly, cackling as he holds up a mostly empty beer bottle. “Wait wait! The bandit and the babe! The- the Babeit? The Bandabe? Jiya! Jiya help, he’s murder staring me!”

Flynn sticks his middle finger up and laughs as well.

* * *

Wiping the makeup off his face in one of the bathroom mirrors, he nudges Wyatt with his elbow.

“Jess looked like she was ready to take you right there on the coffee table when you started off on that rant about the evils of the patriarchy.”

“Oh god,” Wyatt grins back sloppily. “The sex has been so good since I learnt not to be a macho asshole. Ten out of ten reformed-assholes recommend.”

“Yeah, we all heard. A lot,” Flynn snorts as he tugs Wyatt close enough to wipe off the stripe of paint he keeps missing. 

“Pillow biting,” Wyatt nods enthusiastically, heedless of the cloth being held against his cheek. “Not sharing is caring.”

“You’re such a lightweight Logan,” Flynn shakes his head fondly. 

“Jess put whiskey in my cola,” he slurs, slumping against Flynn. Flynn sighs and puts his arm around the other man. “Also did you see Rufus! He looked so badass!”

The engineer had done his own face paint, transforming himself into a Star Wars storm trooper with surprising realism. It was a bit washed out thanks to the paleness of Jiya’s handmade paint, but the white had still been stunning against his dark skin. 

“I’m glad we’re slowly kicking racism’s butt. Rufus is like my brother man,” Wyatt drawls into his shoulder. “Can I go to bed now? Wonna see if Jess is up for some cuddles. Mmmm I love her Flynn.”

“Come on,” Flynn smiles softly. “Let’s get you to your room.”

* * *

“Hey you,” Lucy smiles at him from the bed as he slides quietly into their room, leaving the door wide open as always. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous,” he quips cheekily as he undoes his two top buttons and pulls his shirt off over his head. His sleeve cuff catches on his watch strap for a second, but he unhooks it easily with one finger, and then he folds it all carefully and slides it into the middle cabinet drawer that Lucy has left open for him. 

“Oi!” she protests, tossing a balled up sock at him. He evades it easily, and then using long uncalled on soccer skills, kicks it up with his foot and volleys it towards the laundry baskets. It misses, but then he hasn’t played for five years, and even that was only amateur college five aside.

“No but seriously,” she harrumphs. “I had an idea.”

“Do tell,” he smiles more kindly as his pants come off and get folded up too. Turning his back, he quickly swaps his boxers for his long plaid pyjama pants, and then he’s climbing over Lucy’s legs and settling in with his back to the wall as usual.

“We never use the other bed in here anymore,” she says hesitantly, obviously nervous for his reaction. “I know it’s only been like, six and a bit weeks since we broke you out of jail, and I am perfectly happy to go slow as you want and need but…”

“Seems like a bit of a waste of space,” he nods in understanding. Loosely biting the inside of his cheek, he considers. “We’re um. We’re moving faster than I did both times before but… I am okay with this. I know that the journal is not accurate anymore because of how much we have changed the timelines since I was given it, but I still learnt many things from it. It has made me um, more comfortable to start with than when it was Matej and Lorena.”

“Matej huh?” Lucy smiles, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “You’ve never mentioned his name before.”

Flynn grins up at her.

“He was not much taller than you. I used to call him my little ball of rage.”

“I take it he was in the army with you?”

“We were both in the same squadron of the Croatian freedom fighters,” he nods. “And then he came to Chechen with me. We didn’t really formally break up, but after Russia, I wanted to go find another war and he wanted to go home. We just… drifted apart.”

“Must have been hard,” she says with a tilt of her head. “I mean, being two men together in the 90s in parts of the world that still struggle with basic tolerance now.”

“Yes, but we were careful,” he shrugs. “We both got beaten up by a large gang of civilians once, but our commanding officers assumed that it was anti-establishment sentiment and we never corrected them. It _was_ a hate crime, but it was too risky to call it out as such.”

“I’m sorry you had to experience that,” Lucy mourns for him, putting her tablet computer down and sliding down to settle in for the night. Once she’s happily on her back, Flynn scoots up to her and rests his chin atop her shoulder, gently draping a loose arm over her middle.

“We were otherwise okay,” Flynn yawns, pulling the covers up over them. “I loved that man enough to risk myself for him. And I love you more than enough to do the same for you. So let’s move the bed hmm?”

“Yeah. Let’s.”

* * *

_“Oooo boy, angry Flynnster is scary,” Rufus sighs to her as he tosses his soot stained jacket, pants, and shirt into the trash. Jiya briefly considers asking if the clothes are salvageable for a later mission, but decides that’s probably insensitive. Her boyfriend almost burnt alive in those clothes, he’s totally allowed to toss them out._

_“I thought you were already aware of that,” she teases instead, licking her lips salaciously as she eyes his shapely abs. “You said similar things all the time back when we thought he was the enemy.”_

_“Well yes,” Rufus rolls his eyes fondly. “But he got pissed off when Emma managed to slip away from us. We spent all afternoon traipsing around Chicago looking for her, and then for this fire watchman kid and he just got more and more stroppy.”_

_“You do remember that he threw a spatula at you in his first week with us too,” Jiya laughs as she tugs him towards the two narrow cots they’ve shoved together._

_“That just reinforces my point! Angry Bandit equals scary Bandit!”_

* * *

Rufus takes a leaf out of Bandit’s book and lets himself have cookies for breakfast. Lord, his girlfriend is a good baker. The icing on top might be a tad messy, but it’s the flavour and love that make them desirable. 

Mmmm, he feels like there’s a good sex joke in there somewhere. Too bad Flynn or Wyatt aren’t around to make it for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me how Denise managed to get Orangina; I know it's really hard to find in the US. But Lucy asked for some, so Lucy got some.
> 
> Face paint:  
> Lucy - Wonder woman  
> Flynn - Superman  
> Rufus - Storm Trooper  
> Wyatt - Harley Quinn (a la suicide squad, but like. Respectful. He one wash dyed his sideburns red and blue too...)
> 
> I left the others for you to decide ;) post your comments with what characters and/or looks you think Jiya, Jess, Denise, and Connor were sporting.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon? Nay, we stray further from that curs'd land with ever'day that passes.

“Ich habe ein Apfel,” Lucy pronounces carefully at her cell phone.

The phone dings and Lucy smiles.

“Das ist sehr gut,” she says brightly, obviously talking to herself. Then her frown of concentration comes back; Flynn presumes the next question has popped up on the screen.

“Bald wirst du mich verstehen, wenn ich dir sage, dass du schön bist,” Flynn rumbles in German. Lucy glances up at him with wry amusement. 

“I got _understand_ and _you pretty_ out of that,” she snorts. “I can guess the rest from context and the fact you said it to _me.”_

He shrugs, deciding not to be embarrassed. 

“He said, soon you will understand me when I tell you that you are beautiful,” Wyatt repeats in English absentmindedly. He doesn’t look from his own phone, where he is also determinedly trawling through a Duolingo course – his being French. “I bet all that stuff he says in Croatian to you is equally as sappy.”

“It is easier to emote honestly in your mother tongue,” Flynn shrugs again. “I’m very very fluent in English, but I’m not a _true_ bilingual. I learnt English as a second language, hence the accent.”

“And then you just kept going and going,” Wyatt grins. “One language after another until the rest of the world began to tremble in fear before your might.”

“Das ist richtig,” he smirks. “Vrai. Rigtigt. Sih. Ispravan.” He pauses. “Tačno,” he adds with a deeper smirk. “Verdadera, vera, verdade. Zhēnzhèng!”

“Bandit, stop showing off and finish that report,” Christopher grumbles, leafing through her own stack of paperwork.

Everyone stops and stares at the agent in surprise.

“What?” she frowns. “If he wants more training equipment, he needs to fill out- oh for fuck’s sake! I knew letting you all use the cutesy nickname was a bad idea!”

Flynn and Wyatt exchange a glance and then burst into snickering laughter.

* * *

_“Hey Rufus man,” Wyatt clears his throat self-consciously. “I know I normally ask you to do it, but do you mind if I ask Bandit to check the shrapnel scars on my back? Top left one feels a bit tight where it’s started to keloid.”_

_“Yeah sure, no problem,” Rufus frowns. “Why though?”_

_“I’m kinda hoping that if I talk about mine, Flynn will open up about his,” Wyatt shrugs awkwardly. “An oblique way to start a conversation about the cuts on his arms you know?”_

* * *

Eight days. 

More than a week since Rittenhouse last jumped. 

“Yes, I’m sure!” Rufus groans as he runs an analysis programme for the third time. “Emma’s clever, but she doesn’t have the right tech expertise to have built that kind of shielding device! Even if she somehow managed to replace the Mothership’s entire CPU and cut the one way link we have with it, we could still track the machine’s jumps manually anyway by analysing the temporal disturbance signature! I’m telling you, they haven’t jumped!”

“But what if they have?”

“They haven’t Wyatt!”

“Even if they have,” Flynn adds dryly, “our memories would alter to match, and we’d never know so there’s no point worrying about it.”

“That’s not reassuring man,” Wyatt groans. “What if they try to erase you somehow? Because then Lucy never gives you the journal and then you never steal the Mothership so the team never forms and Rittenhouse never get discovered? We won’t have a chance of stopping them.”

“But we will because we can still track them just fine,” Rufus grumbles. “I swear man, they just haven’t jumped for some reason.”

“What are they _doing_ though?” Wyatt moans. “Ethan Carhill gave us so much intel that there’s hardly any of them left. Lucy gave us more after she escaped their evil clutches. All of the remaining members have had to go underground, they’re extremely short on funds because we seized all their bank accounts, and we raided and secured _at least_ 95% of their group properties. They only thing they still have going for them is their possession of the Mothership and now they’re not using it!”

“Maybe us meeting President Woodrow in person and swaying his opinions to our gain had more of a knock-on effect than we realised?” Rufus suggests. “The police reforms he started early have rippled forward after all, so maybe they jumped back and found some of their remaining resources now got seized? If they had less sway as an organisation in law enforcement and the government agencies, they would have had even less warning when Denise and Homeland struck. What if Emma jumped back and they no longer owned whatever dingy warehouse they’re hiding in?”

“It’s not that,” Jessica suddenly blurts with a grim expression, having just strode up to the group of them determinedly. “Flynn, go and get the others. We all need to talk.”

* * *

Flynn can’t breathe.

He can’t _breathe._

For weeks- he’s been eating and sleeping and _living_ in the same place as a Rittenhouse sleeper for weeks. He cooked with her, shared jokes and books and celebrations with her, he _combat trained_ her.

_He can’t fucking breathe._

He can’t-!

* * *

Lucy is kneeling in front of him, her hands on his knees as he bends over and shakes. 

He’s not sure how long he’s been sat here with his head between his knees, but his eyes are burning and his ears are ringing and-

He’s going to kill her.

_He’s going to-_

* * *

He blinks

He blinks and a sob tears itself out of his throat.

He told her about _Iris._

Jess had mentioned her little brother and he had _told her about Iris_ in return.

* * *

Jess voluntarily puts herself in the holding cell. 

She’d sat them all down, turned the TV off, and told them all that she was one of Flynn’s worst nightmares. She’d told them all that she was Rittenhouse, had been raised by them from early childhood, and that she was supposed to hijack the Lifeboat, kidnap as many of them as possible, and neutralise anyone else.

She’d also said there was no way in hell that she was going to do that now she had experienced an outside perspective for the first time in her life. 

But Flynn doesn’t care.

Rittenhouse murdered his girls and ruined his life. He’s only just started scrapping the shattered pieces of himself back together.

And Jessica Logan is Rittenhouse.

“I want her out of here!” he growls again, pacing up and down the length of the kitchen tables. 

“She’s giving us intel,” Christopher repeats dully.

“She can give us intel from somewhere that’s not here!” he spits angrily. “I want her gone!”

“She can’t leave the bunker Garcia,” Christopher snaps, ignoring his loud outrage when she uses his first name. “She knows everything about it; the layout, the sleeping arrangements, the power sources. She knows about all the security measures you’ve added, and she knows about the ventilation network and the emergency exit. She knows we’re still in California, and she knows roughly what area of California.”

“Give her my cell in supermax!” he shouts, kicking a chair hard enough to buckle its leg slightly. “I was there six months and no one got to me! If anyone deserves the misery of full time solitary, it’s the people who _murdered_ my wife and five-year-old daughter!”

“If she talks to the wardens, then people outside of the Homeland task force could learn where you are. Then not only will you go down -if the NSA or CIA don’t just shoot you on sight dammit! – but Lucy and Rufus and Wyatt could all go down with you! Me? I knew the risk when I let them break you out and I’d deal with the consequences! But I’m not risking their freedom just to satisfy your need to unnecessarily move a hostage elsewhere immediately!”

Flynn grabs a glass of the table, throws it against the far wall, and storms towards the main exit.

* * *

He makes it as far as grasping the driver’s door handle of Christopher’s SUV before someone puts a hand on his shoulder. He spins around, arms raised to lash out and-

Lucy. 

With Wyatt and Rufus close behind her. 

Wyatt looks as much of a wreck as he feels. His face is pale and sunken, his cheeks tear-streaked, and he won’t meet anyone’s eyes. Flynn is torn between sympathy and a burning, loathing desire to know how the _fuck_ he didn’t notice the woman he loves is a Rittenhouse mole.

“I got her keys, get in,” Rufus grunts, holding a bunch up and unlocking the car. “We’re getting out of this shithole for a bit and taking a fucking breather. Jiya and Connor agreed to hold the fort.”

* * *

Rufus drives them about half an hour south in silence. 

After some hesitation, Flynn had crawled into the back seats, and as expected Lucy had climbed in after him. Wyatt had taken the passenger seat, pulled the hood of his jacket up, dropped his head against the window and seemingly gone to sleep. 

By the time Rufus pulls up in a carpark next to a tree-surrounded lake, he already feels much calmer. Not less angry by any stretch, but less full of uncontrollable rage.

“Apparently this is Butte Lake,” the engineer grumbles as he pushes the car door open and climbs out. “There’s a ranger station back up the road we just came down, so stay out of trouble. None of us have any money or IDs, and we don’t want to draw attention to Bandit’s fugitive ass.”

“It’s a good ass though,” Flynn tries to joke. It’s a tad weak, given the horrifically shitty day they’re all having but well. Half of Flynn’s life has been a shit show in one way or another; you can but move forward. 

Wyatt keeps his hood up and stalks off towards the water with his shoulders hunched almost immediately. The other three watch him go, Rufus eventually sighing deeply and then shrugging and shuffling off after his best friend. 

“Come on, there’s an ice cream truck,” Lucy mumbles, sliding her hand into his and miraculously handing his glasses over. When she’d had time to grab them from their room, he doesn’t know.

“We don’t have any cash,” Flynn frowns back as he slides them gratefully onto his face - Rufus was being entirely truthful about their collective brokenness. “And even if there was anyone around for me to pickpocket, we’d be unlikely to get away with it. Not even close to enough of a crowd; we’d be pegged as the guilty ones instantly.”

“I’ve got ten bucks,” Lucy shakes her head. “Lifted it off Connor a week back. I’ve seen you do it often enough now I thought I’d start practicing myself, and he’s an easy target with how drunk he often is. Got a screwdriver out of Rufus’ back pocket and Jiya’s phone too this week.”

“Stvorio sam grupu kriminalaca,” he snorts with a grin. “Got anything off me yet?”

Lucy smirks back with a wink.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he mumbles dryly. 

“To be fair, you’re easy to distract when you have the advantage of being me,” she laughs as they step up to the small building. Lucy has called it a truck, but it’s more of a small mobile portacabin that’s been permanently chocked up and half clad in wooden panels. The usual Good Humour brand heart stickers are everywhere, mixed in with more local brands and some soda adverts, as well as a whiteboard with a coffee and cake price list written out on it.

The front window is open, and a bored looking teenager is leaning on one elbow and staring at his cell phone. 

“How can I help you?” he drawls without looking up at them. 

Flynn and Lucy exchange a weary but amused glance. 

“I’ll have a Jolly Rancher popsicle please,” Lucy asks for politely, licking her lips. “Gabe honey?”

He raises one eyebrow questioningly at the unexpected use of his brother’s name, but otherwise shrugs it off. It does make sense to be cautious he supposes, regardless of how little danger they’re currently in, and bandying about their real names is the opposite of that. 

“I’ll have a waffle cone with a scoop of brownie chocolate, chocolate sprinkles, and a - oh dammit, I always forget you don’t have milka. I miss Croatia ‘cause Hershey’s is disgusting.”

“Whaaat?” the teenager frowns dopily. 

“Just get me a chocolate in waffle with sprinkles,” he sighs. “Waffle cone!” he repeats loudly when the kid blindly grabs a normal wafer.

“Did we ought to get something for James and Richard?” Lucy muses to him, pulling the crinkled bill out of her jeans’ pocket. 

“Just give them some change later,” Flynn mumbles, instinctively knowing which alias belongs to who. “James probably needs… space right now.”

Once they’ve paid up and been given their ice-creams, Lucy takes his hand again and they head off in the opposite direction to their two friends.

* * *

It’s a reasonably warm day despite being mid-November, with only one or two faint wisps of cloud passing over head. They stay under the cover of the trees for the sake of Flynn’s annoyingly delicate nerves, and though he looks out across the rippling water occasionally, he’s careful not to look up. 

There’s a handful of people out on the lake, two young adults in long canoes and a bunch of kids in kayaks under the watchful eyes of a man in a moderate rowboat. As there’s was the only car in the lot, Flynn presumes they must all be staying in the campsite. The older couple they walk past definitely are seeing as they find themselves invited for beers in their RV when Flynn pauses to make a fuss of their dog.

Lucy graciously declines for them both, explaining they’re only out for a walk not staying overnight, while Flynn stays down on one knee and gleefully gets his face washed by a sloppy tongue and his clothes covered in white husky fur.

After a few more minutes, Lucy more or less drags him away from the animal with a fond eye roll that makes the couple chuckle at them and make _he’s a keeper dear_ comments.

“Should have known you’d be a dog person,” she smiles as she picks some more hair off his sweater. “The way you fawn all over horses when we’re out in the field… Stupid of me to think that it was only a childhood cowboy thing and not just a furry animals thing.”

“Lorena used to call me an animal addict,” he smiles, shutting his eyes so he can safely tilt his face up into the sun for a second without panicking. “She wouldn’t let me get a dog because our jobs meant we weren’t home for large chunks of the day, but we had a cat and a bunny.”

“A bunny huh?” she teases. “I bet it was a big fluffy one with floppy ears.”

“The floppiest,” he chuckles. “Sunce, which is Croatian for sunshine. She was an angora dwarf rabbit, and she was hairier than the cat despite the fact that Bennett was a silver Persian.”

“You called your cat Bennett?”

Flynn shrugs, ducking his head.

“Lorena’s idea. She was quite the Pride and Prejudice fan; she had good taste like that.”

“Can we get a cat?” Lucy asks quietly, tugging him closer so she can hook their arms together as they walk. “When this nightmare is all over and we can go back to our own lives. A big fluffy ginger monster that will lie on our shoulders and purr loudly while we’re trying to read.”

“And a great big dog that will lie in the sun all day and let the cat use them as a bed. A Great Pyrenean Mountain or a Bernese or something.”

“I think I’m more of a Corgi kind of girl,” Lucy grins. “Big enough that the cat won’t torment it, but small enough to curl up on my lap for cuddles.”

“Tropical fish,” Flynn adds, lost in the daydream. “The little bright coloured ones with big wavy fins. In a proper filtered tank with live plants and one of those cheesy, tacky rainbow castle models.”

“We’ll put in the reading nook we’ll have, surrounded by bookshelves but brightly lit by the bay window. Somewhere near the coast so the fresh sea air flows in all day, but small and cozy. Instead of having a formal dining room, we’ll have a study for all our research and your bits of gadgetry, and everyone will just have to eat off their laps in the front room if they come over.”

“Rufus and Jiya can have the big table for dinner parties,” he nods in agreement. “Our place will be the hideaway with the small secluded garden.”

“We can put frosting sheets over all the windows so it’s nice and bright but you never have to look out unless you want to. And I can sit on the back patio if the walls ever start to close in on me.”

“We’re gonna have so many fairy lights and strips of colour changing LEDS everywhere,” he grins. “Like the worst version of every girl’s college dorm room. So much artwork painted straight onto the walls that the realtor who has to try and sell it 100 years from now will despair.”

“We’re gonna do it, you know,” Lucy says much more softly. “We’re going to take down Rittenhouse and save everyone and take the chance to make these dreams a reality. Jessica was their only secret weapon and she betrayed herself for us.”

Flynn looks away and takes a moment to collect his thoughts before he answers. The anger is still there, hot and simmering in his throat and chest, but the drive and the walk have helped him get it under control, let him think rationally instead of emotionally now.

“I just-,” he starts with, sighing deeply. “I just don’t get how none of us noticed. She was right there, under our noses the whole time, waiting for the right moment to tear everything out from under us.”

“Because Rittenhouse trained her to do exactly that for her entire life,” Lucy mumbles. “We went to Hollywoodland, and while we were gone, they jumped again and set up 30 years of mole training for her. But you know what? It didn’t work. You heard her; she doesn’t want to be Rittenhouse. She wants out.”

“If she can be believed,” Flynn snorts harshly. “She’s been lying to us for weeks. What’s one more lie?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Lucy shakes her head, stopping at the edge of the trees. The water is still rippling to their right, low hills rising slowly up to taller mountains on their left, and sunshine dappling over it all in direct contrast to their mood. “Outing herself as the enemy is the least strategic move she could have made. If she’d kept quiet, we never would have known – she was in the _perfect_ position to do maximum damage. She could have kidnapped Rufus or Jiya _easily_ in the middle of the night and taken the Lifeboat, and yet she’s thrown that chance away. Hell, she could have put bullets in all of us while we slept and we would never have seen it coming.”

“But she didn’t,” Flynn sighs, aggrieved. Lucy’s right, but he’s still so damn pissed off about the whole thing. “She threw it all away on the chance you’d forgive her like you did me. Jebati, I don’t want to be a uh, hypocrite and deny her the same chance I was given, but… I was never Rittenhouse.”

“Not to be an ass,” Lucy huffs wryly, “but at least we’re not Wyatt right now? Imagine how you’d feel if it turned out I was a sleeper.”

“Please don’t make me imagine that,” he winces. “I wouldn’t survive another loss like that. I’ve almost not survived the first one more times than I care to recall.”

“Sorry love,” she sighs. “I won’t mention it again. Come on, we should head back and find Wyatt and Rufus. Jess said she was given 10 uninterrupted days to finally stab us in the back, and obviously she’s not going to. Which means that for once, we know for _sure_ that Rittenhouse won’t jump for a couple of days; we should take advantage of it.”

Flynn looks out across the water again, back towards the car. Nodding in agreement, he tucks Lucy’s arm over his more securely, and together they set off back towards their friends.

* * *

_Wyatt slaps the shopping list down on the countertop and ignores Denise’s raised eyebrow._

_“This is everything Rufus and I will need to start work on the basement. There’s a lot of water damage down there, and Flynn can’t come down and help until we’ve got it dried out, heated, and lit up much better.”_

_“Requisition forms,” she tells him pointedly. “And I will remind you_ again _that there’s a budget you’re supposed to be sticking too.”_

_“I can do the job properly, or I can do it to budget,” Wyatt drawls. “And remind your boss that Flynn, Rufus and I are doing all the labour for free. Get us the materials or pay us working wages.”_

_“And I suppose your next demand will be to get Flynn added to the government hazard and back pay list?” she snorts. “Like that will ever get approved.”_

_“It will if you hurry up with overturning his convictions and get him registered as a Homeland asset like the rest of us,” Wyatt snarks. “I’m going back to fixing the boiler. Again. Get me those materials!”_

* * *

Rufus watches as Wyatt stalks back and forth along the water’s edge, his hood up and his hands clenched by his side in fists. 

Every now and then, his friend will bend down, scoop up a rock or a fistful of gravel, and violently launch it out over the lake. He’ll stand and watch it, almost vibrating with anger and rage, until the last of the ripples from the splash have dissipated, and then his furious pacing will resume. 

Almost fifteen minutes pass like this, until eventually Wyatt yells wordlessly at the sky and then drops to sit right where he stands.

“Hey, I’m here,” Rufus soothes him quietly as he finally moves over. Much more gently, he lowers himself to sit beside his distraught team member and hooks a loose over his shoulder.

“Why does this keep happening?” Wyatt whispers brokenly, his eyes red and watery. “Why do I keep losing her?”

“She’s not gone for good this time buddy,” Rufus says plainly, tugging Wyatt’s head to press his face against his shoulder (like he does with Jiya, like he’s seen Lucy do for Flynn a hundred times. Like everyone does for those that they love). “She wants out, which means you can get her back.”

Wyatt doesn’t answer.

But his arms wind around Rufus back, and they sit together in the dust and dirt amongst the twigs and dry leaves, and Wyatt sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sunce._ Croatian. Sunshine, pronounced sun-say.
> 
> [TheaLocksly](https://thealocksly.tumblr.com/post/622039315472580608/more-ideas-3-au-where-lucy-joins-flynn-in) has been talking about Lucy having a cat all week, and I couldn't get the idea out of my head.


	32. Chapter 32

Agent Christopher is standing at the base of the ladder when they return to the bunker, her face blank and her hand held out expectantly. 

As the first one down, Rufus drops her car keys into her palm with a nonchalant shrug and then ambles off down towards the main bay. Flynn slides down next, eager to be back in the emotional safety of the enclosed walls and familiar space, Lucy and Wyatt quick on his heels.

“I hope you all enjoyed your little excursion as I’m not covering for you again.” she tells them tonelessly, her arms crossing over her chest. “This was a one-time hall pass. Flynn, I cleared up your shattered glass. You’re welcome.”

“I could have broken your skull instead?” he grins ruefully as Lucy slides her hand into his.

“Murder joke!” Rufus calls over his shoulder, still walking away.

Christopher rolls her eyes. 

“Stay away from the holding cell, the lot of you,” she orders, gaze fixing on Wyatt meaningfully. “No talking to her, no bringing her food and water, no middle of the night check-ups. You stay clear.”

“Yes Ma’am,” Wyatt mutters listlessly. Lucy nods, and Flynn throws one of his trademark sarcastic salutes. 

“Good,” Christopher nods back, her eyes narrowed. “Jiya and I cooked, so now you can _all_ go sit down in the kitchen.”

“It’s only three in the afternoon,” Lucy frowns. “Too early for dinner.”

“Do I look like I give a damn?” Christopher scoffs, her lips twitching towards a smile and her posture softening. “You all staged your illicit break out before lunch, and I know you won’t have eaten while you were out. So scoot! Kitchen! Eat!”

“You know, you keep complaining that I sarcastically call you mom, but you make it so easy for me,” Flynn snorts. “Mooooom.”

“Better than being creepy uncle Bandit,” she pats his cheek.

“Did she just-?” Wyatt mumbles in bewilderment as she turns on the spot and strides off. “Just _pat_ you? On the _face?”_

“Lesbian power move,” Flynn stage whispers, trying to shake off his own shock.

“You’re fucking weird man,” Wyatt snorts.

“Weird and hungry,” Flynn sighs dreamily. “Wait. I’m hungry? Me? _Hungry?_ Zvijezde gore! Quick, I must take advantage!”

“Is he okay?” he hears Wyatt mutter as he hurriedly shuffles away from Lucy and marches down the corridor. “That was pretty manic sounding.”

“Don’t jinx it lollipop!” he yells, twisting to walk backwards. “Come on! Food time!”

* * *

Flynn is well aware that this energetic high he’s coasting on is a direct result of his anger blown near-meltdown from this morning, and that the next stage on his emotional rollercoaster is probably going to be exhaustion and all encompassing apathy and numbness. 

Or possibly simmering rage again. 

But probably apathy.

In the meantime though, he’s going to take advantage of it. Ride it to all the way to productivity town.

Wyatt barely touches his food despite Lucy and Christopher both trying to coax him into eating more. The tricks they usually use on Flynn himself don’t do much other than make Wyatt irritated, and after the third time he snaps at everyone, Flynn drags the other man away from the table and deposits him in front of the TV with the first car-related movie he can find on Netflix. 

Then he returns to the table, scarfs down every bite of food on his plate, and miraculously only gets the slightest twinge of the usual nausea. 

Rufus silently volunteers to sit with Wyatt for the rest of the afternoon, ignoring the man’s expected grumblings and cuddling up to his side. Lucy disappears with Connor and Jiya for another gruelling session in the Lifeboat simulator, and so Flynn finds himself left to his own devices.

Mostly.

Within five minutes of him stripping down to his tank top and the pair of paint splattered cargos he usually works in, Agent Christopher is staring at him from across the room. 

“Can I help you?” he asks eventually, hauling Rufus’ toolbox closer to him. Casting a careful eye over the second water tank's connection to the boiler, he hefts his hand-built thermostat extension module and considers.

“We suspected something was up with Jessica before she spoke up this morning.”

Flynn feels his good mood sink like a stone. 

“You what,” he hisses, his hands clenching.

“Carol Preston kidnapped me, you already know this,” she starts, moving closer to the boiler room door. “Homeland backtracked the signal from the tracker in my neck to their base, and I sent Logan on a reconnaissance mission while you and the rest of the team were ensuring Robert Johnson made his blues album. You already know that too.”

“You’ve known she was compromised since then!?” he snaps. “And you did nothing!?”

“Rittenhouse knew we were coming and were just finishing a hasty clear out when Wyatt arrived,” she continues coolly despite his obvious anger. “Again, you know that. You also know that they didn’t have time to pack up all their computer equipment, so they just literally torched it all. You’ve seen the remnants; Mason is keeping most of it in boxes in his health hazard of a workshop.”

“Oh, but you knew she was dodgy, and you did _nothing!”_ he snarls, his clenched fist rising upwards, finger wanting to point accusingly. 

“And finally, you knew that Mason has been going through all of those computer components and trying to see if he can get anything from it. While you were in New York with the suffragettes, he managed it.”

“That was more than a week ago!” he yells, incandescent. “A whole _fucking week!?”_

“All we got was some grainy pictures,” Christopher snaps back, finally losing some of her grip on her own temper. “Most of the rest of the hard drive was corrupted, and what wasn’t was just floorplans for properties we already locked down. Four stalkerish pictures of her proves nothing Flynn, not when we already knew they were watching her before Wyatt brought her here. For all we knew they were just taken during their own reconnaissance immediately before they assaulted her.”

“But you _suspected,”_ he growls. “And you said _nothing.”_

“For precisely this reason,” she bites out. “So that you didn’t jump to conclusions before we had a real reason to be suspicious. So that you didn’t fly off the handle half-cocked and do something I _know_ you’d regret afterwards.”

“Oh we’re back to threatening me, are we? Stay in line and be a good little soldier boy or I’ll send you right back to jail?” 

“You’re supposed to be a genius and yet you’re such a fucking moron!” Christopher yells right back at him, her eyes rolling and her arms waving about in disbelief. “You’ve spent the last month and a half doing almost nothing but moping about being depressed over all the people you killed, and you think I’d let you make things worse for yourself by killing someone else!? Especially the wife of one of your closest friends!? Hell fucking no!” 

“You don’t even care about me!” 

And then he’s panting, and tears are prickling at his eyes, and he _can’t_ do this. He can’t fucking _do_ this.

He needs Lucy, and he needs to get out of this tiny lightless backroom.

He needs-!

“How the fuck have you not noticed that I very much do!” Christopher suddenly yells at him.

She? She _what?_ She-? _-Him?_

He doesn’t answer, can’t answer.

Because Rittenhouse took everything from him, and still keep trying to take everything he’s gained since. Because nothing in his life is stable. And because he can’t _do_ this anymore.

Oh god, he _can’t-_

 _“Men!_ I swear to god!” she sighs as his hands visibly shake. “Even the reasonably self-aware ones like yourself are all emotional idiots! How straight women manage, I’ll never know!”

And then of all the unsuspected things, she’s _hugging_ him.

And he’s crying all over yet _another_ person.

* * *

“To be perfectly fair Agent,” he sniffs, wiping his face dry on the bottom of his vest, “you do keep saying you don’t like me.”

“Shut up Garcia.”

* * *

A bit of the bounce returned to his step, he smiles as he saunters back into the main bay. Wyatt has flaked over onto Rufus and Jiya’s laps and is snoring quietly while the other two stare engrossed at whatever cartoon they’ve now put on. Something with a giant flying fluffy monster and a bald kid with an arrow on his head. 

Lucy is laid across the other couch, her head pillowed on a stolen cushion and a textbook on the trail of tears propped open on her chest. 

“I got the second tank connected to the boiler, we should have double the hot water now,” he announces quietly as he shambles over. He keeps his voice down, not wanting to wake Wyatt, who somehow looks even more exhausted than he had when Rufus had lugged him back to the car at the lake.

“Yaaaas, no more group speed showers,” Rufus crows in a low tone, tearing his eyes away from the TV for a second. “Bandit is a babe. _The_ babe.”

“Hey!” Jiya protests mildly, flicking him on the cheek.

“Oh no, you definitely out rank mere babe level my love,” he hurriedly adds as he catches her hand and drops a kiss on his knuckles.

“Acceptable save,” she mutters dryly back, mindlessly fiddling with one of the toggles on Wyatt’s hood. 

“I thought it was a pretty good save,” Flynn comments as he stands and peers down at Lucy, trying to decide the best way to join her. She looks pretty comfortable, but she’s taking up literally the whole couch and then some. He could go sit on his own on the third couch, but he’s very much aware that he’s a giant sap in love. So no thanks, not sitting alone.

“See! Bandit appreciates me!”

“Just your sass and your ass I’m afraid,” he leers back, deciding to lift Lucy’s knees and slide under them. She obligingly unhooks her feet from under the couch’s arm to help him, and he quickly finds himself prodded into massaging her toes and soles when she drops them back into his lap. Not that he’s complaining; she returns the favour often enough.

“It is a very good ass,” Jiya snorts. 

“Hear hear,” Lucy grins as she turns a page, the first time she’s spoken up. 

“Thanks? I think?” Rufus pulls a face.

“Yes, definitely thanks!” Flynn grins. “We’re complimenting you! Well, we’re complimenting your ass.”

“You’re teasing me, is what you’re all doing,” Rufus pouts. “Poor little Rufus, such an easy target.”

“You said it, not us,” Flynn barks a laugh.

“You’re all loud, is what you are,” Wyatt groans, rolling onto his side and shoving his face into Jiya’s midriff. “S’the time?”

“Sorry bud, didn’t mean to wake you,” Rufus apologises. “Gone 7pm already.”

“M’hungry.”

“That’s because you didn’t eat lunch,” Jiya mumbles, sliding her hands into Wyatt’s hood and ruffling his hair. “If you let me up, I’ll grab something for you.”

“Don’t worry, Flynn and I got it,” Lucy yawns as she stretches and then drops her book onto the coffee table. “Got the munchies myself anyway.”

“Oh I could murder a chocodile right now please,” Rufus smiles. “Want anything t'hy'la?” 

“Coffeeeeee,” Jiya drawls through a smirk. “No wait, it’s beer o’clock. IPAs all round?”

“You know what,” Flynn muses as he stands and rolls his shoulder until it clicks. “Seeing as we actually know for sure that we’re not going anywhere tomorrow, I’ll get go get the decent vodka I have stashed.”

“Ha!” Rufus crows. “Jiya and I _knew_ you would have hidden some somewhere!”

* * *

Flynn wakes with a shuddering groan and squeezes his eyes shut tighter. 

Beside him, Lucy sleeps on.

Her arm is looped over him as usual, his head tucked into the curve between her neck and shoulder. Their legs are tangled together, her ankle slotted between his knees, and the air he’s breathing is hot as the comforter has been pulled right up over him, only the very top of his hair poking out.

He should have had a good day yesterday, given that Agent Christopher had shown up with almost a dozen cases of guns and ammunition and dragged them all down into the adjacent valley to finally do some proper live round gun and rifle training. But despite the fact that he should have been in his element, and despite the fact that Christopher had factored his phobia into her plan and set the range up in amongst the trees, he’d felt… off kilter all day. Like his brain was trying to fill with fog and his senses grow dull.

He’d muddled on through though, and only Lucy had seemed to notice that he wasn’t quite with it. That he was on the edge of zoning out all day. 

He should have known that an iffy day would lead to an even worse night.

Lucy had turned off all the string lights before climbing into bed after him, so the only illumination in the room is from the dull orange bulbs out in the hallway. With his head under the covers and his eyes closed tightly, the world is black to Flynn. Black as the pit of sorrow echoing hollowly in his chest.

Letting out another deep ragged breath, he contemplates the best way to extract himself from Lucy’s hold without waking her; he’s surprised she hasn’t stirred already with the way he was trembling as he gasped awake, but he’s glad he hasn’t disturbed her rest too. Pulling his legs back slowly first, he shuffles slightly backwards towards the wall until it’s only her arm over his shoulders and his face against her neck that are still in contact, and then he carefully brings up his own arm to lift hers off of him. 

She twitches and mumbles, and he stills instantly.

A few long seconds pass and she settles again, so he carefully continues moving away. 

When he flips his side of the covers back, the cold air hits him in a wave and he shivers violently. His arms are slick with sweat and his back is so clammy that his thin vest top is sticking to his back, so the chill seems to seep deep into his bones almost immediately. For a second, he contemplates lying miserably in the dark instead of getting up, but he knows that will only end up in him panicking or disassociating. 

Once he’s finally made it to his feet, he swaps his sweat-soaked tee for a soft, dry turtleneck sweater, and then tugs his boots on and pads out towards the main bay.

The lights are brighter in here, and he helps himself to Connor’s tin of tea bags and fills the kettle up with fresh water. A short shuffle over to the fridge for the milk later, and he has a mug of steaming English breakfast.

“Well you look like hell.”

Flynn just about jumps out of his skin, hot liquid splashing onto his hand. He swears emphatically in several languages, shakes his hand vigorously before he scolds himself, and then turns to glare half-heartedly at Wyatt.

“Whited sepulchre,” Flynn grumbles as he shakes off his startlement. 

“Um, what?”

“It’s a synonym for hypocrite.”

“Never heard that one before,” Wyatt shrugs through a yawn. “Why you out of bed man?”

Flynn shrugs himself, tossing his teaspoon gently onto the countertop next to the sink, and then grabs his mug and wanders over to where Wyatt is sat on the end of the bench press bench. Leaning on the end of the bar stand, he crosses his legs at the ankles and sips his too-hot drink. 

“Usual,” he adds when Wyatt keeps watching him.

Wyatt hums sympathetically. No one in the bunker is unfamiliar with nightmares, and no one is ignorant of the fact that Flynn suffers with them worse of all. 

Flynn takes another swig of his tea and lets the silence settle around them comfortably, broken only by the familiar low beeps of the Mothership monitoring computer bank.

“I can’t stand my bunk room right now,” Wyatt huffs quietly after a few minutes. “The beds are still pushed together and… half the stuff in there isn’t mine and even putting clean sheets on didn’t- I can still smell _her_ on the pillows.”

“Lucy and I never got round to moving the cot out of our room if you want to flake out on it?” Flynn offers tentatively as he stands up straighter. “Just you know, temporarily. For tonight. And then Rufus and I can help air your room out tomorrow if you think that’d help. Rearrange the furniture, whitewash the walls while we’re at it.”

“Maybe,” Wyatt grunts back, pawing at his bag-laden eyes with the back of one wrist. “Doubt I’ll sleep anyway but… Thanks man, I owe you one.”

“Let me finish my tea and go stick my head under the shower for 10 seconds, and then I’ll come tuck you in,” he smirks, batting the back of his hand against Wyatt’s shoulder fondly.

“You really do look like shit,” Wyatt snorts. “I’m surprised that you’re functional enough to talk right now. Normally when you get to this level of sweaty pale raccoon, you’re pretty much sleep walking.”

“Meds help,” Flynn tells him plainly as he drains the last of his tea. “I’m starting to level off now, stabilise. You should talk to Christopher; she might be able to set up an appointment for you to get a prescription yourself.”

“Never taken antidepressants before,” Wyatt grunts as he hauls himself shakily to his feet. “Probably should have gone on them a while ago, but I’m still unlearning the reflexive judgemental shit drilled into me a kid.”

“We live and we learn,” Flynn yawns himself, feeling calmer now. He could probably safely go back to bed now, once he’s washed the tacky layer of dried sweat off himself.

“Or we’ll be too dead to care anymore,” Wyatt shakes his head as they shuffle back out of the lifeboat bay side by side.

* * *

_“I really don’t know how the hell any of us are going to go back to normal lives after all of this,” Jiya mumbles as she grasps blindly for her bottle of conditioner. Lucy reaches out and grabs it for her, sliding it into her friend’s hand before ducking back under the warm spray of water._

_“We’ll adapt,” Lucy replies, stretching her aching arm out, trying to imbue more confidence into her tone than she actually feels. “So it won’t be the same as before, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be worse.”_

_“Do you think I’ll have to go back to bar tending?” Jess asks as she turns her shower off and starts sluicing herself down with her hands. “I’d really like to actually use my degree, but with Wyatt always haring off all over the world, I’ve never had the stability I need to risk a full career change. And now everything has gone to shit anyway…”_

_“Sure, why not,” Lucy tries to smile encouragingly. “Not sure I can go back to teaching and normal academic research after this, so I guess we can bumble through post-Rittenhouse life together.”_

_Continue following in her mother’s footsteps? After all that’s happened? The very thought sickens her._

* * *

“Nooooo,” Rufus whines piteously into his pillow. Behind him, Jiya also groans just as forlornly and her arm slides off him as she flops onto her back.

The Mothership alarm is blaring, and the first rays of dawn have only just started to creep in through the grimy windows of their room.

“Fucking PetaQ,” Jiya curses in Klingon as they hastily roll out of bed and scramble for their discarded clothes. “Shame upon their houses, and may their honour never return.”

“This is very much the bad place,” Rufus agrees, groaning as he realises he’s pulled his khaki sweater on inside out. “Jeremy Bearimy time and all.”

Within seconds, they’re stumbling out of their bunk into the dimly lit corridor.

Connor is already at the monitors when they stroll into the Lifeboat bay, and by the time Rufus climbs up to peer at the map next to him, he’s gotten the alarms off and the tracking software running. The global map slides across one screen in its usual bright blue, and a tracking chronometer pops up at the base, the years rapidly flicking backwards. 

Lucy, Flynn, and Wyatt all come in together less than a minute, all looking sleep rumpled and put-out. Wyatt in particular looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards and lost a brawl with the sandman, but Flynn isn’t far behind him; clearly neither of them have gotten a lot of sleep.

“June… 1610?” Connor reads off. “Jamestown.”

“Starving time,” Lucy and Flynn grimace at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dutifully begins opening lots of research tabs*


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLS READ**
> 
> This chapter (and the next one) contains Powhatan native Americans. I know next to nothing about native American tribes, cultures, and traditions. As an Englishman, all we were taught in school was "there was a man called Custer and the [native americans] kicked his butt! Standing rock, Sitting Bull!". That's it. That's the full extent of British education on the subject. Therefore, _everything_ I've picked up about these topics has come from Tumblr posts made by various natives, a scattering of film and TV shows, and a few days research and poking around academic journals and books. Alas, a lot of this was undoubtedly written by stuffy middle aged white men, so despite my attempts at cross referencing, I've probably made some incorrect presumptions. 
> 
> If I have written _anything_ even remotely disrespectful or incorrect, do not hesitate to call me out on it if you want to.
> 
> **K thanks, love you all xx**
> 
> In other author news, this is the second version of this chapter as the first one crashed and burnt and not only wiped itself from my hard drive, but from my cloud back up too. The original was, unfortunately, better than this and had a lot more banter. But the way I write is very off the cuff and unplanned, so I couldn't get the same flow of conversation going. I'll try to add back in some of the original jokes, meme references, and terrible puns later on in the fic.
> 
> On the plus side, this version is a lot more historically accurate? As I did some more frustrated research before starting from scratch?

“3rd of June, 1610,” Rufus sighs as the Lifeboat powers down around them. “Five miles from the centre of the Jamestown colony in Virginia and three whole days before Rittenhouse are gonna show.”

“Well your forcefield works,” Flynn shudders, his skin prickling with static electricity. “No nausea and all my internal organs seem to still be in the right place.” 

“Am I supposed to feel all tingly?” Wyatt twitches, clearly trying to shake off the prickling sensation. 

“It’s just a little bit of static,” Rufus waves away. “It’s completely inert radiation wise; taking a walk in the sunshine is more harmful.”

“Tastes like prawn cocktail potato chips,” Lucy pulls a face as she starts unbuckling her harness. “And it’s made my ears all fuzzy.”

“Potato chips?” Wyatt questions around his tongue, which he has stuck out as if that will somehow help him understand Lucy’s experience. Flynn finds himself uncomfortably reminded of Jar Jar Binks in The Phantom Menace.

“Potato chips?” Rufus echoes blankly.

“Personally I’ll take being doused in white noise over vomiting up my lungs and stomach,” Flynn cuts over the two of them. “Now are we getting out of this three-legged tide pod, or we gonna sit here discussing the taste of electricity until Rittenhouse arrives?”

“I’d really rather just sit here to be honest,” Rufus snarks. “We seem to be faced with the choice of either dying from starvation or dying by angry vengeful native.”

“We’re not going to die,” Lucy rolls her eyes as Flynn moves towards the door hatch release. “We’ve brought enough MRE packs to last more than a month.”

“I notice you tactfully skipped over death by vengeful native there,” Flynn teases as he pulls the lever and lets weak daylight filter in.

“I have been doing this long enough now to know that absolutely nothing I say will stop either you or Wyatt from putting modern bullets into anyone who so much as _looks_ like they might try to kill us. You’d shoot Jesus himself if you thought he was a threat, so I’m pretty sure the Powhatan’s don’t stand much of a chance.”

“I’m not going to shoot _Jesus,_ ” Wyatt cries dramatically. Flynn’s own catholic upbringing shudders in revulsion too, but he ignores it in favour of peering outside tentatively; for all their jokes, there genuinely is an uncomfortably high chance they’ll run afoul of the Powhatan natives.

“Can we even go that far back?” Lucy muses behind him as he cautiously starts to clamber down to the ground, senses on high alert.

“We did a test run to England 1066 with the Mothership,” Rufus tells her. “Some place called Stamford Bridge. Connor wanted to know if this berserker dude really did get stabbed in the balls by Normans. The answer is yes, yes he did. But yeah, both time machines are capable of going back about ten-thousand years before things start getting iffy. The only reason we’ve stuck to the last 400 years recently is because that’s what first Flynn, and now Rittenhouse is doing.”

“Alright, looks clear,” Flynn calls out quietly once he’s peered critically through all the surrounding trees and listened carefully. “You can come out but keep your guard up and your voices down.”

“So you’re saying that Rittenhouse actually could jump back to the year 0 and murder baby Jesus if they wanted to?” Wyatt frowns as he loosens his pistols in his holster and carefully slides down into the undergrowth next to Flynn.

“I really don’t think they will though,” Flynn snorts, patting Wyatt sarcastically on the shoulder. “They’re a Christian white supremist cult; they’re not going to destroy their own religion in the cradle.”

“But they could,” Wyatt points out.

“Can we please stop talking about this,” Rufus moans from the Lifeboat’s doorway. “My girlfriend is Islamic and I don’t want Rittenhouse getting any ideas.”

“Yes please; no more religion discussions,” Lucy agrees dryly as she peers around Rufus. “I’m going to hand the satchel’s down, but we need to discuss how we’re going to sneak them into Jamestown.”

Flynn reaches up and grabs the first one that she holds out, settling the strap diagonally over his chest with an easy swing. Wyatt takes the next one, and then Rufus clambers down and accepts the third. All three contain an assortment of lightweight military ration packs, multivitamin bottles, and some basic water purification equipment. 

The fourth and final bag, that Lucy hoists over her own shoulders as she seals the Lifeboat up and then let’s Flynn lift her down, contains whatever least-anachronistic items they could all scavenge from around the bunker in a hurry that could potentially be used in trade with the natives. Flynn’s contribution had been two of the crystal whiskey tumblers he’d stolen from the Hotel in 1919 New York. Connor had remarked last week that they were made from lead crystal, and so he’d already stopped using them anyway; he’d rather not slowly give himself lead poisoning thanks. 

“Okay, final reminder of our cover story,” Lucy states lowly, tugging her grey cloak-shawl straight. “We’re English Puritans that have travelled down from the new colony of Plymouth, in what will become Massachusetts. In reality, the pilgrims won’t actually arrive until November of this year, but the Jamestown colonials have no way of knowing we’re bullshitting as they’ve had no news since July 1909.”

“Are you sure no-one will question my clothes?” Wyatt asks quietly. Having not come to Salem with them, he’s without authentic pilgrim clothes of his own. Given that there’s no one here to steal or shop-lift from, he’s been forced to cobble together an approximation from modern clothing mixed in with some 18th and 19th century stuff.

“They’ll just assume you’re a foreigner with slightly different fashion standards,” Lucy shakes her head. “Our modern American accents are going to make us stand out anyway, despite the fact that the current English accent is closer to modern American than modern British.”

“Take it from me,” Flynn grins. “Just confidently act like it’s no big deal and no-one will remark upon it anyway. Clothes _or_ accent.”

“Fake it ‘til you make it,” Rufus sighs. “Great. So what exactly are we gonna tell the Jamestown people about _why_ we’ve come to the colony?”

“Simple,” Lucy smirks. “The puritans kept calling us blasphemous strangers and decided we weren’t holding to their holy ideals enough. Eventually they exiled us. So we’ve made our way down the coast over the summer to a community that better embodies the teachings of our good lord and saviour.”

* * *

They creep through the woods quietly, circling round so that they will eventually be approaching the walled settlement from the north, in keeping with their story.

Flynn makes them stop after a couple of miles and rub dirt and grime all over each other, the better to make them look travel worn and exhausted. Wyatt frowns contemplatively, and then borrows Flynn’s hunting knife. In surprisingly short order, he somehow has two squirrels hung from his belt.

“Gotta explain how we’ve not starved to death on the journey somehow,” he winks. “Besides, you guys said the colonists are all _actually_ starving to death; bringing them food will instantly get us into their good graces right?”

“Good idea,” Lucy grimaces, eyeing the poor animals distastefully while she brushes excess soil off her fingers. “See what else you can hunt down but stay nearby. Not even Flynn will be able to save your hide if the Powhatans get the jump on you while-”

“Yeah about that?” Rufus squeaks as they all find themselves staring down the length of arrows on drawn bows.

* * *

Flynn is genuinely afraid right now.

The Powhatan tribe are skilled warriors, excellent land caretakers, and brilliant negotiators and traders. They’re also, where white people are involved, keen to kill first and ask questions later. This is the white settler’s own fault, as they began firing shots at the natives within the first week of arriving and beginning to establish Jamestown.

Being victims of unprovoked violence does tend to make people prone to their own pre-emptive strikes. As a Croat that grew up under Serbian rule, Flynn can relate.

Lucy and Rufus have been allowed to walk along unshackled, but Flynn and Wyatt have had their arms twisted harshly behind their backs and bound with rope-like twine. They both also have the tips of spears held mere inches from their fronts and backs, and all their weaponry has been confiscated. 

Flynn has also been wrestled out of his leather overcoat and left in his thin white shirt sleeves and dark buttoned vest top. Not that he actually fought back when they began to pull it off him; the loss of his coat is a small price to pay for not being stabbed repeatedly. 

The biggest problem is that they have no common languages. No way to explain themselves.

The Powhatans surrounding them don’t know English, and none of time team know any Powhatan. Even if they’d had the time to look up some basic vocabulary before climbing into the Lifeboat, they wouldn’t have gotten far; the language has been extinct since the 1700s, and only about 500 words were ever written down.

They could probably try charade style sign language, but it’s a little hard when you’re trussed up like a turkey and being treated like the devil himself.

“Oh boy, we’re so dead,” Rufus moans when they are eventually marched in a clearing filled with dozens and dozens of low, oblong houses formed from bent saplings and woven mats of bark. “So very, very dead. Hey ow! Don’t hit me man!”

“Rufus stop talking,” Lucy sighs tiredly as they’re shoved into a central pit, little more than a shallow depression in the ground surrounded by knee high blocks of stone. Half a dozen of the furious looking tribesmen stare down at them menacingly, their weaponry still ready to be used on the team at the slightest provocation. 

“Shutting up,” Rufus grumbles, keeping his hands up.

“They’re going through our bags,” Flynn winces as he rolls to his knees and shuffles back towards the others. Lucy presses up against his left side, Rufus his right. Wyatt raises an eyebrow and also crawls haphazardly over, and so they end up huddled in a circle, sat back to back with their feet pointed outwards, watching every direction. 

“Ah yes, that’s just a basic metal and plastic 21st century water desaliniser,” Wyatt mumbles as one curious tribesman pulls the small white and blue flask out and holds it up suspiciously. “No biggy.”

“Wait until they try opening a rice pudding rat-pack,” Flynn snorts. “Oh wait no, they’ve found our washbag first.”

“I never should have let you guys bring all this stuff,” Lucy grumbles. “The modern guns have always been bad enough. Now the 15th century first peoples have a can of Gillette shaving foam.”

“They also have four semi-automatic Berettas, two Glocks, three modern US military service knives, a dozen spare ammunition clips, and Rufus’ lethal looking swiss army knife,” Flynn points out dryly. “They can keep the shaving cream if I can have all that back.”

“They don’t appear to have worked out how to take the safety off the handguns at least?” Wyatt winces quietly.

There’s a click, and then a loud bang. Many of the tribespeople screech as the handgun fires wildly, the discharged bullet hurtling off into the treetops.

“I take it back about shutting up Rufus,” Lucy groans. “You may absolutely bitch about our current situation as much as you like. We’re all so fucked.”

* * *

_Connor often finds himself the odd man out in the bunker._

_He’s British for a start, and obviously so. He’s well aware that he’s a bit of a narcissist for another, though he has been trying to tone that down even more so than usual recently. Living in inescapably close quarters with the same half-dozen people day-in day-out does require some personality moderation after all, no matter who you are (or were…)._

_He’s also old enough that even Garcia Flynn occasionally seems like a bit of a kid to him, despite the rather alarming large amount of life experience the other man clearly has._

_By Einstein, he feels_ really _old some days._

 _He can understand it, to an extent. Especially where Rufus is concerned. He’s known the boy since he actually_ was _a boy. A struggling middle schooler with a brilliant mind but no social support. Or well, support of any kind really, except for the continuous encouragement of his overworked and underpaid mother. When you’ve known someone for that long since that age, it’s hardly surprising that some level of parental feelings develop. And when the object of those feelings grows up, leaves the nest, and thoroughly flourishes… well yes, he feels old._

_Jiya swooped in under his radar sometime around the moment he realised that Rufus was head over heels for her. It’s been long enough that he’s unfazed by the protectiveness he feels towards her._

_Wyatt and Lucy are another matter. Being slightly older than Rufus and Jiya, he hadn’t really considered them much more than temporary colleagues and allies until the bunker dynamics came into play. He’s still not really sure where he stands with them, but there’s something there. Something that makes his heart lurch whenever they go out in his damn stupid invention, the same way it does whenever Rufus is in danger._

_It’s Flynn that he doesn’t know how to categorise. The man who stole his Mothership, his pride and joy. Who murdered one of his closest and oldest friends (Connor’s feelings about Anthony are complicated these days, so he tries to give Flynn the benefit of the doubt over that one). The man who tore through time and space and threatened his Rufus._

_The man who skulks vacantly around the bunker at night like a broken, kicked puppy. And cries over his late murdered wife and daughter when he thinks no-one is watching._

_It’s hard to hate a man when he’s crying unashamedly into your shoulder. When he clings to you in the middle of the night and openly sobs until his maybe-girlfriend appears to fondly escort him back to bed._

_It’s hard to hate a man that makes those increasingly common parental instincts twinge in the base of his chest._

* * *

They arrived not long after noon, and given that it’s June, it takes a long time for the sun to set and for darkness to settle around them. A few small torches and fires flicker in the night air, but otherwise the camp settles quickly into the quiet of sleep. 

For some reason, the Powhatans have more or less ignored them other than continuing to guard them. Flynn really thought he’d be most of the way to dead by now; Lucy had told them the cringe-worthy tale of how John Ratcliffe met his grisly end during a failed trade mission. There was a lot of torture involved, and a lot of blood. 

His hands now untied by Rufus, he’s leaning sideways onto Wyatt’s shoulder while Lucy is dozing with her head in his lap. Rufus is grumbling quietly in his sleep, having also tipped over so that his head is next to Lucy’s. 

“You should get some rest dude,” Wyatt mutters, flexing his shoulders slightly. “I’ll wake you in a couple of hours and we can trade off watch.” 

“Pretty sure I’m not going to sleep,” he mumbles back as his eyes flicker towards some movement beyond the firelight directly to his left. A young girl steps out of one house and walks confidently to another, ducking inside it without a single glance round. 

“You should try at least though.” 

“Probably,” Flynn huffs back, making no attempt to actually do so. 

“Here,” Wyatt strains, shuffling until he’s at a right angle to his previous position. “Lucy and Rufus have the right idea. Drop your head in my lap and shut your eyes.” 

“This is ridiculous,” Flynn sighs as he gives in and leans back until he’s lying flat in the dusty red earth, head propped up on Wyatt's thigh. “Wake me in a couple of hours or I’ll scalp you with my fingernails.” 

“Murder joke!” Wyatt grins in the low light. 

* * *

His eyes snap open as a rhythmic booming sound starts. 

Drumming. Steady and ominous. 

Dawn has just begun to seep it’s light up beyond the treetops, the eastern sky a brilliant orange haze mottled by wisps of cloud. It stretches over their heads, fading into a narrow band of pink and then out into an expanse of deepening blue. 

Above him, Wyatt jerks and also wakes with a start. 

He must have nodded off before managing to rouse Flynn to take over watch. 

“Um, pre-colonial native American music and culture isn’t really my wheelhouse, but that sounds very shaman-y,” Lucy groans as she also stirs in a hurry. “Or possibly we might finally be about to meet the Powhatan, Wahunsenacawh.” 

“This Wahun- Wahunsect- this guy, he’s the chief of this tribe?” Wyatt stumbles. 

“Wahunsenacawh,” Lucy repeats. “Wah-hun-son-a-cock. But yeah, that’s what _the Powhatan_ means in this context; chief, king, ruler. Though technically he’s the leader of a confederacy of tribes known as the Powhatan, not just one tribe alone. He started off with inheriting about four or five tribes when he became the Powhatan, but by now, he’s got about thirty odd under his control.” 

“Great, so he’s powerful,” Rufus groans as he sits up and rolls his neck around. “Glad to know that my imminent murder will at least be ordered by some one of status.” 

“He’s also mightily pissed off with white people,” Flynn grunts. 

“Understandable,” Wyatt comments wryly. 

Two instruments which sound like wooden flutes suddenly join in with the drumming, the melody twisting hauntingly in the air around them. More and more tribespeople begin stepping out of the houses and hurrying about basic tasks such as stoking cooking fires and fetching fresh water. 

Their guards, which have changed at some point during the night, continue to stare down at them with their wary expressions. 

“Love me a good funeral march,” Rufus grumbles. “Just wish it wasn’t for my own funeral.” 

“This is really not how I pictured dying, no,” Flynn concurs with a pained grimace. “Hey Lucy, are these guys a fan of scalping? Or are we getting slow roasted over a fire and made into stew?” 

“They’re cannibals!?” Rufus stutters. 

“Will you both stop with the morbid pessimism!?” she hisses at them. “And with the stereotyping!? They’re not cannibals!” 

“Sorry,” Flynn grunts. “Gallows humour.” 

“They won’t scalp us until after we’re dead anyway,” Lucy shakes her head. “They only scalp for kill trophies. We’ll likely just have our throats quickly slit and then bleed out in minutes, so quit worrying about it.” 

“Oh whole minutes of bleeding to death, really?” Rufus whimpers. “Excellent, much better than seconds or instantly. Flynn can you just snap my neck for me before they get that far?” 

“Really?” Flynn whines. “You spend months begging me not to kill you and now you _want_ me to break your neck!?” 

“Man with big headdress approaching,” Wyatt announces with only a slight quiver in his voice. Flynn rather envies him his decent façade of calm – he’s thoroughly terrified himself. Having already endured more than his fair share of physical torture in his life, he’s quite honestly shit scared of experiencing more. And even more petrified of his friends having to go through it too. 

“Do _not_ do anything stupid, or I swear to god, I’ll kill you myself,” Lucy growls at them all. 

The crowd of natives lead by the man Wyatt had singled out finally reaches the edge of the small pit they’re huddled in. The four individuals with the drums begin to crescendo their rhythm, the tempo increasing and the pan pipes following. The melody splits, one line dropping into the lower pitches, the other an octave or two above it; both sharpen as the notes shorten, becoming more staccato and more urgent. 

The man hefts a totem-like staff decorated with animal skulls and feathers and the music comes to a dead stop. 

With the final beat of the drums, the other native villagers all cease their tasks and hastily scramble to surround the central pit. 

“You are white, but not of the white invaders,” the probable-chieftain sneers down at them as silence descends around him. 

“Okay, he’s speaking English,” Rufus squeaks quietly. “Is he supposed to know English?” 

Lucy jabs her elbow into Rufus’ side and then clears her throat. 

“We are not from Jamestown, no,” she shakes her head slowly, her hands raising. Dragging her feet slowly round, she moves from sitting to kneeling down, her skirts getting coated in a thick layer of thick red clay-like dust. 

“You take our hunts for your own.” 

“We meant no disrespect,” Lucy bites her lip. Flynn _very_ slowly rolls over himself, kneeling to the back of her left shoulder. Hopefully the position actually looks as subservient as he hopes it does. 

“Disrespec’?” the chieftain echoes with a tone of demand. “What is this word?” 

“Um, lack of courtesy,” Lucy tries. “To insult?” 

“You did not wish to… disrespec’, but you take our hunt?” 

“We did not know it was your hunt. We are travellers.” 

The chieftain scoffs, and a low hum of chatter starts amongst the crowd of people. Flynn shuffles worriedly and ducks his head some more, aware that he's half cowering behind Lucy, but also not giving a damn. 

“You take our food, we take your food,” he scoffs again. “This is fair.” 

The crowd falls silent again at his first word. 

“That is fair,” Lucy nods hurriedly. 

“You are not of the white invaders. This is good.” 

Lucy turns to look over her shoulder, her eyes wide questioningly. Flynn raises an eyebrow, while Rufus and Wyatt both shift uncomfortably. 

“No, we are not,” Lucy repeats when she turns back to face the man. 

The chieftain grins, a vicious thing with blazing eyes. He hefts his staff again, smacking it once into the gravel. 

“You will repay for the hunt taken,” he chuckles harshly. “Ten suns your white menfolk must repay. The moon man will not be… disrespec’. Repay not needed. Moon man has honour.” 

“Am I the moon man!?” Rufus hisses gleefully. “Is it finally good to be the black man in history!?” 

“Can we please not get excited until we find out how we’re repaying!?” Wyatt hisses too. “What if the debt is settled with blood!? Mine and Flynn’s blood!?” 

“You take food, you give food,” the chieftain nods with apparent satisfaction. “Come. There is work. Repay.” 

Flynn shudders and prays to the god that he know longer believes in, that Wyatt is wrong and he’s not a dead man walking. 

* * *

_Jiya is sick to goddamn death of these stupid visions. Watching the spilt second snippet of her boyfriend gasping his last blood choked breath over and over and over again is really fucking draining._

_Her digital watch beeps twice to let her know it’s 3am._

__Oh fuck off _she thinks harshly at it, as though the inanimate chunk of circuitry will somehow hear her. Or maybe she’s saying it to the universe at large. After all, the watch is merely marking the passage of time. It’s the universe itself that has the audacity to keep moving forward even when she doesn’t want it too._

_“Why aren’t you in bed?” someone grunts from behind her as she shoves the computer mouse jerkily across the desktop. Flynn, if that accent and growly tone is anything to go by._

_“Same to you, quttae alturuq,” she grumbles back without looking at him._

_“Arabic?” the tall man queries as he shuffles up onto the raised computer platform and sits beside her. He’s in his usual navy blue and maroon plaid sleep pants, the ones he seems to live in whenever he’s not working with Wyatt or Rufus, and has that grey hoody pulled on over a plain blue tee. It’s a low v-neck, and she can see the curl of one jagged scar looping up from his chest. “Sounds like Arabic, but I don’t have the vocabulary to know what you said.”_

_“Lebanese Arabic, yeah,” she mumbles back, typing some code out with one hand. “I called you bandit. Thought you’d be amused.”_

_Flynn snorts and leans back on the stool, and Jiya finally looks up at his face._

_To her utter lack of surprise, he looks like total hell. Hair stuck up every which way, bags under his eyes darker than a black hole, and skin waxy and pale. He’s damp too, a thin sheen of sweat coating both his face and his neck. Clear evidence that he’s had yet another nightmare that he’ll refuse to talk about. Or even admit to having._

_“Come on, I want tea,” she sighs instead._

* * *

Rufus has no fucking clue what is happening right now, but it apparently involves being dressed in the native’s own traditional clothing by a group of giggling teenagers. Once they’ve tied him into an array of bleached leather and cloth, they paint his forehead and shoulders with the same red paste that they’ve all used on themselves. And they repeatedly cluck disapprovingly at his hair. 

He presumes they’re annoyed it’s not long enough to weave feathers and beads into. They keep trying to do that anyway, but they’re having no luck. 

God, he hopes Flynn and Wyatt are okay. Last he saw, they were being dragged over to canoe-like boats under armed guard and more or less ordered to help with the daily fishing. Lucy went into the Chieftain dude’s hut-house thing and seemed to have half the native women fawning over her. Chief-dude seems to have realised she’s the leader of their little motley crew at least and is accordingly affording her appropriate respect - despite the gender roles embedded in pretty much all history. 

Maybe these natives are used to female chiefs and leaders? Would make a nice change from the misogyny of the white western world. 

He finds himself pulled out of his concerned musings by the final cessation of hands rubbing over his skin. The small crowd of kids step back and, as is apparently universal no matter the year or culture, smirk at each other silently as of something is secretly hilarious. 

“Chantackahun,” one young boy then grins at him, slapping his closed fist against his own sternum when Rufus rolls his shoulders and glances round. He can’t be more than fifteen. At absolute most. 

“Pasatarutus,” another boy imitates him. 

Completely guessing, Rufus decides to repeat the two words.

“Chantackahun?” he says pointing at the first boy. “Pasatarutus,” he continues when the first nods enthusiastically. “Okay okay, I was probably right and those are your names. Okay. _Rufus.”_

He slaps his own closed fist against his chest as he says his name and the crowd of youths laugh and nod some more. 

“Ruuuuufus,” one of the girls imitates, clearly teasing if her sniggering tone is any indication. “Ruuuufussss.” 

“Rufus,” Chantackahun repeats more accurately. He holds his hands close together and repeats the name. Then he widens them and says his own name. Narrows them, says Rufus, and laughs. 

“Oh, oh you’re laughing at how short my name is, great.” Rufus sighs. “Ha ha ha. Yeah well try this on for size. Chantackahun,” he says with his hands held wide. Bringing them together, he drawls _Chan_ with a smirk. 

“Chan? Chan!?” 

A blatant eye roll and scoff. 

Rufus nods with a grin and says it again, pointing at the boy. 

Chantackahun slaps his fist against his sternum again with his own smirk and simply says 

“Chan." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Widens hands* Edward  
> *Narrows them* Ed
> 
> Sorry for the italics being fucked. Will fix them in the morning 😴

**Author's Note:**

> I have [Tumblr.](https://insane-sociopath.tumblr.com/)  
> And a fic [Masterlist]()  
> And an abundance of gay... Come say hi. Feed the muse because you have as much idea where this is going as I do...


End file.
